


The Heart

by slire



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Death of the Family (DCU), Explicit Sexual Content, Loss of Identity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-18 10:23:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1424965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slire/pseuds/slire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Joker, sick and heartbroken, plans to recreate himself. Another scheme is in motion; one that'll shake his darling to the core and break the Bat like no one else can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. love and me

**Author's Note:**

> Accompanying mixtape: http://8tracks.com/turbinewomb/the-heart

_In the desert_  
 _I saw a creature, naked, bestial,_  
 _Who, squatting upon the ground,_  
 _Held his heart in his hands,_  
 _And ate of it._  
 _I said: "Is it good, friend?"_  
 _"It is bitter—bitter," he answered;_  
 _"But I like it_  
 _Because it is bitter,_ _  
__And because it is my heart._

In The Desert by Stephen Crane

.

.

It starts with...

Omens.

It's not the people's fault; it's the mob, the madmen, the masked. Gotham is like an open sewer system of crime and corruption. Living there makes one rather superstitious. Horseshoes above bedroom doors, fallen pennies picked up, a pinch of spilled salt thrown over a shoulder, right shoe put on first. Small things that keep the population from going as mad as the lot on Arkham.

A lonely light flickers at a deserted beach.

" _Fuck_! Next time, bring a better flashlight, asshole. And remind me why we're here again."

Three construction workers stroll along the shoreline. Their waders protect them from crushed beer bottles, seaweed and general litter.

"Some boys saw a face in the water. Mom begged us to take a look," the second one answers, shoving cold hands into his pockets. "Probably just a plastic bag. No balls on kids these days." They share a laugh and stories about the old days, the good days, the days without taxes or wives.

"...Yo, bastards, I think it's over here." They pause, conversation forgotten.

Right underneath the water's surface lies something pale and wet and rotten.

The flashlight interrupts, flickering off and on and off again. When it dies for the seventeenth time, it actually  _dies_. Sausage fingers fumble with the batteries. "Fuck, it's not workin'."

"Give it up." One of them lights a lighter, folding his finger to resemble a cover against the weather. "Here." He brings it to the water, watching the reflection. Closer and closer and closer. It's is almost unrecognisable. Almost. But the rotten white and smeared red shown on GCN is never forgotten.

"Oh my god. It's  _his_  face."

.

.

Omens.

_"...third week with this insane heat wave in Gotham, and it looks like it's getting warmer..."_

"Turn that shit down."

Hastily, a senescent beggar lowers the radio's volume. A coin spirals through the air, clinking as it hits the insides of a cup. Booze splashes and the beggar curses.

The two men continue on walking through the dirtiest, darkest of allies to get to the boss. The one on the left is only visiting because the blood test came out positive. He's the dad, not her bf. She hadn't taken that abortion because she that guy in Italy forbade it. ( _'Though it ain't nothin' Catholic about the way she spreads her legs,'_  he thinks.) Child support isn't cheap these days. Thank god— _her_  god—for Marshall, a fellow high school delinquent, and his last minute offer.

"Didn't think you'd take me up on it, Charles," Marshall begins. He inhales the fume from his cancer stick. "I'm gonna give you some advice 'cos you still seem like a decent enough fellow. Better listen too, I'm not the person to repeat myself. Okay, three ground rules..."

As he speaks, they walk into a gypsy store. The shelves are full of herbal mixes and spirit water. Lady behind the counter doesn't spare them a glance. Behind a lamé curtain, Marshall knocks three times on a brick wall and somehow opens a metal door. It leads to a long, barely lit hall. Marshall puts on an evil clown mask with a long nose, sad expression and plump lips. Charles shrugs and inwardly repeats Marshall's advice.

("One: don't make comments. This isn't fucking middle school. This one guy, Gabriel, called the boss a fag and, uh, well.")

What greets them is an aquarium. Inside are colourful stones, sea plants, tropical fish and a corpse. Ironic how his name was Gabriel, because he looks like an angel. His arms are extended in welcome and his skin is bluish and nibbled on by fish. His cheeks are carved open in a frozen Cheshire grin. The right foot is sawn off.

Marshall elbows Charles to get him to stop staring and gestures to the end of the room.

Several surveillance screens are stabled on top of each other, all of them showing different things. In one, a host on an entertainment program claps in extreme excitement when the contestant fails. Another shows an obese mime performing an act. In a third, a woman is repeatedly stabbed by someone in a pig costume. In the one next to that, three men fuck on the bed, and the tv underneath is a National Geographic documentary about bats. All the sound is muted.

Beneath the televisions is an armchair. A blue, tattered quilt hangs over the armrest.

"Boss," Marshall says.

One row at the time, the screens show static. The quilt quivers. The chair turns halfway around. Not all of the face is shadowed; what is viewable is grotesque. Skinless. A deathly white arm rummages around in the chair, and picks up a lipstick. Ruby red. Fancy brand. The Joker applies it.

"Did y'know that, uh, a bat circling a house means someone's gonna die?" The mouth stretch awkwardly, tongue draping across red muscle. "Or every single body," a glance towards the aquarium, "in the house,  _r_ eally. Did you know that, henchclowns?"

("Two: don't draw attention to yourself. Keep the answers short and precise.")

Charles has no intention of breaking the second rule. "No boss," the two henchmen answer in unison.

"Then I sure hope nobody followed ya. Who's the new guy?" The faceless man stands up and walks towards them. The thinner light rays in the dark are like a pedestrian crossing, his face viewable for milliseconds at the time. On him hang tattered remains of a suit. He looks like he's crawled out of the sewers somewhere. "No no no, don't tell me your name, I'm far to forget—ful. Full of forget. Full. Hah!"

There is something decidedly hollow about his laugh.

"I miss him. A lot."

("Three: don't  _ever_  mention the Bat.")

"The Batman?"

The face contorts into something awful.

"...Did y'know that to see a, uh, bat during daytime means a long journey?" He points at Charles with a cracked, red nail. "He'll do nice _ly_."

.

.

Omens.

An office door slams open.

In storms a very upset nurse.

"Dr. Arkham, you have a walk-in."

Jeremiah Arkham looks up from his desk, glasses reflecting the lamp light. He'd been engrossed in a novel his aunt in law sent him. He ruffles some papers, pretending to have been preoccupied, and scowls over his glasses, "Thought I said I didn't want to be disturbed."

"You don't understand," she breathes, inhales, and splutter, "It's  _him_."

There's the sound of a chair falling backwards.


	2. love and what I'd do for you

Arkham Asylum.

Madness in its bricks, in its mortar. It is caged in the spaces between its walls, trapped. If you listen closely enough—with the right ears and the right mind; the unstable mind—it goes  _scratch scratch scratch_  at night. The patients and orderlies and doctors all hear it, in time, often resulting in a prolonged pill use and a wavering paranoia. Arkham loves them so dearly, you see.

_("Don't let them take me!")_

It eats itself, gobbling up inhabitants, insanity drooling past its mouth and onto the sewer streets of Gotham. Arkham's madness soaks them with tar tread. A tread can be stretched, bound or laid in a circle. They always come back home. It has been like that long before you were born, sonny.

.

.

"Better."

"Yes,  _better_. They said he waltzed right into here. Scared the hell out of Margaret, he did." Nurse June covers her pretty little mouth with her hands. In Arkham, you never know who's listening. "Said he'd do anything to get healthy. Anything."

"And they believed him?" Nurse Agnes is older, hair ratty, skin liver spotted, fingers embrowned from too much tobacco. It was ages ago she'd given up school because her husband's illness.

( _Never leave, never leave,_  Arkham whispers, _Never never never_!)

"I don't think so. They made him sign a contract, though. God knows what kind of experiments they'll try out." June, in contrast, is 25, redheaded and pretty. But her stay is wearing on her. Arkham destroys beauty. She runs a hand through her tangled curls and sighs. "Jesus, I hate this place, these people. But I only have a year left and then I've saved up all I need to get out of here!"

Agnes smiles, and cannot bring herself to break the girl's dreams. She knows it will never happen. June has been here too long.

Agnes feels Arkham's laugh in her bones.

.

.

When a new orderly first arrives, the rest of them will offer no advice until the week is over. 75% of everyone is gone by that period—but the rest never leaves. He'll eventually either 1) crack and spoil or 2) harden and stay. The inmates and the orderlies obtain a civil relationship.

Carlos strolls down the long hall. The light bulb has finally stopped flickering, making him avoid the cliché. A patient or two occasionally screams. Ignoring things like that is a skill that can't be taught. You keep your lives separate. You go out of Arkham and act like yourself until you go back in again. 

He opens the door to cell 139. Loren Emerson. Alias, the Rat Man. Fan of Freud. Believes everything's about sex, including power. That was the root for his grotesque crimes. He's leaning to the wall as if sleeping, or seeking invisible sunlight. One eye opens. "C," he purrs. "Did you buy me a present?" A small sack is thrown over to him; dark at the bottom, fluid soaking through. "Lovely! But you must tell me, is it true? Is J back?" News spread fast here, seeping through the old stones. Arkham whispers secrets in their dreams. "They gonna sew his face back on?"

"Fuck if I know. Just pay me like usual, ok?"

The Rat Man smirks and nods. He unpacks his little present up, breathes in the stink of its filthy fur, and takes a bite out of the dead rat, moaning in ecstasy. Carlos is gone before he reaches his orgasm.  _'Fucking freak.'_

.

.

Dr. Gideon is the voice of moral. Dr. Adams is the voice of reason.

And Jeremiah?

(With ancient blood running through his veins, blood that has been spilled upon asylum grounds along with the fingernails of his ancestors, Arkham howling in laughter)

"Stop fighting," he demands in a hiss. He is a serious and devoted young man, and controls Arkham with an iron grip. Or so he believes. Arkham giggles underneath his expensive shoes. "You may let Dr. Gideon argue without interrupting him, Dr. Ruth. That, however, does not mean your prayers will be answers, Gideon. Be reasonable. We have support from the government and the people. And Adams, who is his doctor, agr—" a scrutinizing stare, " _tolerates_  our efforts. We also have his signature."

"He's  _insane_. This is wrong! How do you even know that it'll work?"

"He can give consent. And would you rather that we attempt more therapy? Use thousands of tax dollars only to have him break out again and wreak havoc?" Jeremiah is very harsh when he needs to be, eyes narrowed behind his glasses. The only person with a matching intensity is Jonathan Crane. Look where that got him. "Do you want to be his new doctor, perhaps?"

Gideon pales. The threat of contacting the media or suing Arkham rots and dies on his tongue.

"A year." Time limits. Basic manipulation. The idiot has a doctorate in psychology and fails to see that. "Your concern is misplaced. We will do anything to help him. And he is willing. Do you understand this opportunity? Just give us a year. Please."

Gideon reluctantly agrees. He excuses himself and leaves. Adams grimaces, eager to smoke six cigarettes to get rid off the moral bullshit that cascades out of Gideon.

Jeremiah nods to her. "Tell my secretary to get in here on your way out, Ruth. I'll have her make a note to move Gideon to the maximum security wing." They share a small smirk.

_'One year. That is all.'_

.

.

**SPRING**

Gone were the happy papers on the walls—little pictures of kittens and children and mutilated female genitalia if you squinted really, really hard—replaced by ashen walls and bad lightning. Straps and chains around his body. God, always the goddamn couch. Hell. Wait. God? Where?

"God has abandoned me."

"Imaginative as usual." The toneless voice belongs to a female, accent a bit plummy. She keeps a distance because he smells like rotten meat and curdled milk.

( _"You'd have a good impression on how he looks if you put a steak in the oven, pumped it full of drugs and cooked it 360_ _C for two hours,"_  Carlos had said,  _"That's how much his face has swollen up. And don't get me started on his body. Fucking sick, what he is. Most of the orderlies don't mind but one of 'em saw a doctor eating a can of chilli after a night of nutsitting and retched all over the carpet."_ )

The Joker's imagination swells into black holes and intricate little whorls and loops that stretch on and on and on like the ropes of the nuthouse, pulling—

"Doc. I'd like to start the process now, if ya don't mind."

The Joker hasn't smiled yet. It's as if he's hollowed out with turkey carver, face covered in bandages. They have dressed him in what looks like a nightgown, matching his pasty skin. His looks anorexic, hands white spiders, joints cracking irritably.

"Alright. Firstly, how do you feel?"

"That's nothing we haven't discussed before."

"Why are you here, then?" She digs her long nails into the notebook. His are longer. Paler, sicklier and shrewd. He wonders if they stick into the notebook. Arkham takes small prices, especially from its fleeing tenants.

"I want to become better... Become someone new. Mental evaluations are bo—ring. Therapy, too. Clawing into my past will not help me if you're gonna start  _fresh_. Rightie?"

"Why are you doing this?"

"Reasons are mine, but not reason itself. Fill in whatever you want in those files. Disease. Death. Religion. A new, loving relationship with Christ. Hah!" He smiles, face(less) stretching and contorting in a horrible way. The smile—if you could call it that—was bitter, bitter.

Son of God. Offspring of Gotham. And what is Gotham but a bat? Arkham is a little Gotham as well. But these thoughts are evanescent. The Joker had, for a very long time, been slipping. He's a dangling over a black gap, one spindly hand clutching awareness. Batman had abandoned him. Had he had a heart, it'd oozed pus. Little shameless bitch!

Oh god.

The Joker's eyes twitch beneath red eyelids.

"You gotta start soon," he says.

The doctor frowns. "We need to evaluate your condition."

"Fuck my condition. Can't feel my left foot."

The frown deepens. "You are... losing the feeling in various limbs? When did this start?" She leans forward in her seat. Had she come closer to cracking the enigma that was the Joker?

"Dunno. Always been like this. He leaves, I wither."

"Who?"  _'Remember the first rule the staff gave you,'_  one half of her mind says warningly.  _'Knoweldge!'_  the other half screams. "The, ah, Bat Man?"

There is a barely audible crack.

She hears it.

The Joker has leant his head backwards. "Darling." Then he cracks his head to both sides and stares directly at her, eyes and mouth inhumanly wide, and his previously dead foot start tramping at the floor like a hare's. "You're Sallie Myrtle, yeah? England? Mother to Thomas? Angelic. Little. Thomas. Blonde curls, fair skin, big baby blues..." She nearly falls backwards as he yanks his head forward, biting and barking, foam at the ends of his mouth. "If you don't get this over with soon I will hunt him down, lie underneath his bed, and eat him when he sleeps."

The thought is comical, had this not been the Joker.

The door slams shut after her. The Joker relaxes again, all signs of hysteria wearing off. He's blank again. On Myrtle's way out, Ruth Adams delivers a tight little smile. Jeremiah had informed her of this, too. With acceptance from a foreign source, they can begin stage two.

.

.

**SUMMER**

The intense city heat does not reach inside Arkham walls. Especially not in the deepest, darkest place of them all; an operating room, specially made to serve a single purpose.

The Joker thinks of boiling concrete and oil slips and tar.

He reaches up with a hand supposed to be bound and scratches his chin, eyes half-lidded. His legs stopped functioning eight weeks ago. His left arm, too. They still insist on binding him though, and making him eat and shit through tubes. If he moves, they'll go  _snap! snap! snap!_  like delicious spines breaking or an umbilical cord being torn.  _'Mother,'_  he thinks hazily. Arkham moves through his body like a cold gush. He shudders.

"Are you cold, Mr. Joker?" an anaesthetist asks. She holds up a shot, thin and long, and squirts twice. An assistant inserts it into the Joker's arm. The guards around them watch carefully. "We'll have to administer a few more doses, and then you'll feel nothing at all."

The cosmetic surgeons await orders. It is two different areas, cosmetics and anaesthesia. But to get this correct, they have to work together under these circumstances. They have all written contracts that this will never leave the room. The head of Arkham Asylum—Jeremiah Arkham—has gotten all the things they need. Yet the unruly stonewalls, the constant dripping and the symbols scratched into walls all unnerve them greatly. The place looks like a catacomb. "Don't worry," Dr. Arkham had drawls, standing behind a glass wall, "they haven't been used as cells since... I don't know, actually. Heh. Maybe they forgot that there was someone down here." No one laughs. The roof continues to drip.

Madness, pouring.

"Out. Out out out," the Joker mumbles lazily. "I want  _it_  out."

The assistant cannot stand to look at the bestial creature on the operating table. He thinks of the kindergarten incident where his niece had gone, and how she'd looked like when they found what remained of her. He doesn't dispense another dose, even if it appears so. "Should we start, then?"

They strap gauze masks on, nearing the patient. To their surprise, he jumps up, yelling, "W _hahahahah_ y are the rats sad today?"

"Did you not give him enough sedation?"

The main anaesthetist turns to her assistant, sighing. Her colleagues scowl as well. The assistant grits his teeth. He's bitten his lip so much he's bleeding. "He deserves pain."

"AGONY and luv— _e_ —li mmmadNES!"

"I told you to lay away your person attachments, Gautier. I'm sorry Dr. Arkham."

"It's quite alright." He shrugs. "I don't mind. I only want you to complete the task."

"I won't work on a patient that's still conscious," another surgeon says.

"Do whatever you feel like." Dr. Arkham is short, bespectacled and gaunt, but very dangerous. "But I am not paying you to argue amongst each other."

When the Joker finally does become unconscious, he takes enough to take out a small elephant. "Is it the madness?" wonder those with an interest in neuroscience, but remembers that they are not here to learn. They are here to fix, fix, fix. Patch him up. And patch it, they do. They even whiten his fucking teeth.

He receives a new face. A new life. Rebirth.

And under their knives, the Joker disappears.

(This is what they forget: The heart—core, centre, soul—remains.

Arkham knows, and smiles.)

.

.

**AUTUMN**

He sits very, very still. His back is straight. Hands in his lap. He's memorized all of this and knows each answer on the sheet. If you repeat it enough, it becomes truth.

"Now then... Tell us about yourself," the loudspeakers demand.

It's weird, talking to a wall—but he's gotten used to it through lots and lots and training sessions. Tests. Questions.

"My name is Jack. Jack Napier, or Anderson, or Earle, or Lachlan, depending who is asking. Uh, nice to meet ya— I mean you, nice to meet  _you_. I'm in my mid thirties. Grew up at an orphanage, so I'm not sure about my birthday. I could be anywhere from my mid twenties and up. Don't ask me about my past, please. The bullying has caused my social awkwardness. My main interests are gardening, cooking and... reality shows. I work at Darling Buds, a flower boutique. I rent one of the apartments above it. Had a girlfriend for a couple of years, but we, um, grew apart. I guess I'm just an average guy."

"Very good Jack. You've nearly managed to destroy your street accent. Remember to start sentences with pronouns and not verbs. Don't pause; don't say  _uh_  or  _um_. Except that, you've made great progress."

"Thanks. Thank you. Really." He runs his hand through his hair. It's a bit dry after his last dye job. And the bleaching before that. They've finally removed all the bandages though. He's still thin, but they've increased his BMI up from underweight.

"Are there any questions?"

"I got one." He chews on the inside of his cheek, but stops himself because he knows he's not supposed to. "I'm... I'm getting better, am I not? You said that was the purpose of all this. To get better."

"Certainly. Why, I think you're almost complete."

.

.

**WINTER**

You can't imagine something more clichéd:

Doctors smiling and waving him off. He would carry two suitcases and a sheet detailing his new part time job. In his jeans pocket there'd be an apartment key and public transport card. Little things that'd help him start anew. He'd waved back at them as he left.

That's... not how it goes.

Instead, six trained men escort him in the prisoner transport vehicle disguised as an ice truck. It is bulletproof, has wire mesh over the windows, and additional seating for the accompanying officers. The man—prisoner, as of yet—they watch intently sits huddled in a corner. He does not speak. He wonders what he did to make these men look at him with such hatred. His new things await him in the apartment.

The doctors still smile though.

 _'Finally,'_  Ruth thinks, and smokes a cigarette.  _'No longer our problem.'_

.

.

Batman shows up about a week later.


	3. love and heart lards

_I see the sun_  
 _She dawns, s_ _he burns_  
 _She grows, s_ _he feeds_  
 _She spews, s_ _he dies  
_ _Above us  
_ _And builds the shadows  
_ _Which faces myself  
_ _She drives me  
_ _Into the black hole_

_The doors opens there_   
_The skin opens there_

Soap&Skin — The Sun

.

.

The three little pigs. 

The fairytale was played on the radio on his way to Arkham Asylum, in between pop songs about sex and police broadcasts featuring corrupt politicians and dead mob members. Fitting, Batman thinks as he walks up the stairs. He looks quite like the big bad wolf, with twigs and shurikens stuck in his outfit (after an unforeseen run-in with a joke of a teen ninja), eyes smouldering, mouth gritty with concrete dust. Snow creaks underneath his heavy boots. The clock is 05:03 and the sun isn't up yet. The intense heat during spring and summer had resulted in a freezing winter. Gotham is never kind.

But he must get the answers to his questions.

The doors to Arkham Asylum open, inviting in the winter wind.

"I'm here to see the Joker."

The awaiting guards feel it blow through their souls.

"He's not here anymore." A flaxen haired girl sat behind in the check in, so to speak; a small box with large windows and brighter furnishing than the outside. She thinks she's safe inside it. "I don't know anything. I really don't."

_The first little pig built a house of straws._

Arkham poisons his soul. He goes over to her, tapping on the glass. Bulletproof. She still thinks he can get through it, somehow. Fear dawns on her. "Then who does?"

"Raymond! He does, he's a nurse y'see. 'E's just down the hall. Cleanup duty 'cos of some mishap." Her accent comes forth when she's anxious. "Real sorry sir."

He nods curtly and travels further into the madhouse. The guards make no move to stop him, it's too early in the morning for that. Batman touches the walls as he walk. Just beneath them rests the precious exterior of the mansion; cold, wet rock. If you lay your ear against them you'd hear running water, or perhaps even scratching, despite the plumbers and carpenters swearing that it wasn't possible.  _'What exactly is buried in this place?'_

"Fuck!"

Someone has pissed all over the floor. A few empty bottles of air fresheners lie beside the spot, resulting in a strong scent of chemical carnations with just a touch of urine. Raymond—or who Batman assumes is Raymond, anyway—is scrubbing at the floor on all fours, cursing every god known to man. "...Goddamn loon can't control her goddamn bladder..."

"Raymond. I want to know Joker's location."

The man freezes. Looks up. Spit drools from his face from his little tirade, and he dries it with his shirt arm, scowling. "He isn't here anymore. We  _cured_  him. But you already know that, huh? We know you've installed surveillance cameras all over the place."

_This little pig built a house of sticks._

"I want to know his current whereabouts."

"This is a hospital. Not a Roman coliseum where we throw people to the dogs. We rebuild ill people, not further breaking them with our fists."  _'Not like you do, you madman.'_

"This..." Thing. Beast. Being. It takes a moment to recall that the Joker is made of flesh and blood and muscle. Human, like the rest of them. "...man is responsible for hundreds of deaths. And you're releasing him into the streets."

"He was a very, very sick man."

Batman breathes through his nose like an angry bull. He's memorized each victim. Each direct consequence of his failures. "Yes. Very sick. So sick that he has, in fact, escaped from here a lot of times. What makes this time different?"

"We recreated him," Raymond says proudly. "You should've seen him. A changed man. This isn't a second chance! This is rebirth!" He looks like a mad dog. "We burnt it. Burnt it all. Files, documents, clothing, personal assets... Gary said something  _rustled_  as he set fire to the face."

"Tennyson, shut up." Jeremiah Arkham enters the scene. He speaks in a very neutral tone, arms folded behind his back. "Get lost or I'll have you to more scrubbing." Raymond's malevolent, prideful expression evaporates. Steam. Jeremiah is a harsh man, but there is a fire to him. "I'm sorry, Batman. Let's go to my office, shall we? There'll be a significant IQ drop if we stay longer."

The office is a small room, with an oak desk and several shelves of the same materal. Books are piled up in there, mostly psychology and history books. Untitled documents are sorted after publishing date, along with a bundle of Psychology Today. No decorations on the walls save for Jeremiah's framed doctorates and other certificates of merit. Very impersonal.

_This little pig built a house of bricks._

He sits down in the leather chair.

"We are in dept to you. You're the one who, perhaps a bit brutishly, bring our patients back home." Home. It sounds like a punch line. "That is why, instead of throwing you out, I'll answer your demands to the best of my ability."

"A name, an address and a security number." 

"Those aren't mine to give. Having a man dressed as a bat asking things he doesn't know about would do more damage than good. He's one of us now." ' _Not your kin, not anymore.'_ "He's just a regular citizen."

This is what Batman hears:

The Joker can be anyone.

"We've cured him, Batman. The Joker is dead. Give him up."

Giving him up is the exact opposite thing of what Batman does.

.

.

_"...sir? Sir!"_

Batman shakes his head. "Sorry, Alfred. What is it?" His gloved hands clutch the wheel. He speeds through Gotham City, manoeuvring through back allies.

 _"Commissioner Gordon has called. He requests your presence. I'll send you the coordination. The sun shouldn't be up before two hours, so don't worry about being sunburnt or becoming ash as the first sunray touches you."_  There is a worried note in the butler's voice, masked with sarcasm. Lowest form of wit, highest form of intelligence.  _"He mentioned something about a ritualistic murder."_

"On my way there now."

Perhaps strange rituals can get Batman's head out of the gutter. All he imagines is running through the city and catch a normal looking citizen staring right at him, grinning shrewdly. The thought of not knowing—and having the information right under his nose—makes his blood run cold.

.

.

"Alright alright, move away boys. If you see one of those fancy cars, tell me."

Commissioner Gordon does not mean to inspire hatred for organizations above their station, but it is the only way to get them to look the other way when Batman's around. Even a lawless vigilante isn't as bad as the stiff, arrogant guys from FBI. They have the biggest sticks up their asses and they only pull them out to beat people.

"Didn't think you'd show up," Gordon says and lights a cigarette.

Batman brushes past him. He does not flinch when he sees death staring back at him.

(His life is funded upon death, remember? Bang, bang, in an alley at night. Blood and pearls on the pavement. Mommy's dead, Daddy's dead, Brucie's dead— _'I shall become a bat.')_

It is a man, nailed to the wall. Muscular. Naked. Caucasian skin tone. Has a tattoo of a big breasted woman on his chest. What is left of his hair is blonde. It'd be easier to see hadn't someone used a whetstone to erase his face, leaving a chunk of blood and bone. Flowers decorate the ground; big bouquets with all sorts of species.

 _In memory of Charles_ is written bellow in green spray paint.  _PS: I let his lower parts remain untouched in case you want another_ _illegitimate_   _child, Diane._

"We managed to recognize him because of the tattoo and the name. He's an old acquaintance of the police. Dropped out high school, been hanging around causing trouble ever since. He must've pissed someone off good. A jealous boyfriend, perhaps? ...Batman?"

The vigilante is crouching on the ground, studying a bouquet. There is a cold feeling in his stomach. Green spray paint, flowers and mutilation. It points to someone who's supposed to be gone.

"You seem preoccupied."

Batman jumps. The commissioner means no harm, but he is standing closer than Batman prefers. His first instinct is to fall back; to growl and hiss like an aggressive, wounded animal, refusing to display weakness. But that wouldn't be fair. "Yes. Preoccupied." He's quiets for a moment. "I need you to stay silent about this. My relationship with Arkham is strained; I wouldn't want to further complicate it. ...The Joker is gone."

Gordon only freezes for a second. Then he sighs out cigarette smoke. "How long?"

"They won't tell me. And he hasn't escaped. They let him go."

Gordon's expression gains a sharp edge. "Why?"

"They say he's cured."

"Bullshit. They won't tell you where he is either, right? Idiots. Why is it that when the good doctors of Arkham do their tests, it's always innocents who die?" It takes a moment for him to cool off. He thinks of Barbara, laughing. He finishes his cigarette, lets it fall and takes it out with his shoe. "Do you think he did this?"

"Not sure."

"Well, contact me if you figure something out. I'll do the same."

Batman leaves without a goodbye. He's brought one of the bouquets with him, and after a quick scan, finds the flower shop where they're from. The chance is small, but perhaps it could lead him somewhere.

.

.

It's 14:00 when he awakens that same day. He feels groggy and dehydrated; a strange lump struggling to come with terms of sentience. He'd almost smirked hadn't there been a certain heaviness to his head that predicts an upcoming headache.

Bruce—because that is what he is now, weak and unimportant, a shell for Batman to rest in—walks into the kitchen and takes two aspirins. That'd do. Alfred serves him eggs and sausage, summarizes the news, and his social plan. Bruce nods and listens. He does ( _"Unimportant, unimportant, unimportant!"_ Batman shrieks, pitch too off for regular humans to hear) things like calling up a girlfriend, offering apologies for standing her up again, and arranges a visit to an underground nightclub where people get too high or drunk to remember if he was there or not.

Then he briefly thinks about the Joker and the shell shatters.

Alfred pauses doing dishes. "A day off, Mr. Wayne. You're supposed to pick Alana up at eight. You promised so."

"I still got time for it," the man says quietly. Too quiet to be Bruce. Alfred frowns. His alliance lies primarily with Bruce Wayne, not the black beast that is Batman. But it is hard telling which is which, these days. "I have to check out this lead."  _'No matter how small, or unimportant. It is still a clue.'_  Batman writhers. "Bye Alfred."

Alfred sighs and goes back to the dishes, scrubbing hard to get out any dirt he might've missed the first time.

.

.

The flower shop is squeezed between an abandoned second hand shop and a café. It is a rare neighbourhood; rare as in low crime, mostly because it's full of cafés and old people. Grandma friendly, they call it. There's two competing day centres there, too. Bruce knew he'd look out of place with an expensive car, so he takes a cab. "They got cheap flowers there," he mutters to get the cab driver to stop staring at him. He ceases after that. Sometimes the arrogant playboy persona is good to have.

DARLING BUDS, the sign says. Pink. There's a bee on a string above the i, going back and forth in the wind. Bruce drags the winter coat tighter around him, ruffling his hair a bit and putting on glasses. It seems to work for Superman, anyway.

Some old ladies send kisses at him. He smiles awkwardly, pretending to be shy. In truth, he feels nothing.

Bruce enters the shop. He enters a world of green.

The bell doesn't work. The bald man behind the counter doesn't look up at his entrance, and Bruce has to clear his throat numerous times before receiving a reaction. "Excuse me," he says kindly, "my fiancée got some flowers, and I wondered if you have more of the type, she really liked—"

"Get 'em over here."

Bruce lays them down on the counter.

"Yup, they're ours alright. They're pretty ordinarily though."

"Well my fiancée is anything but, so I guess she has them to balance herself out!" No smiles. Just a deadpanned look. Bruce shrugs, and asks, "Do you mind if I look around?"

"Suit yourself. Just don't touch anything."

Bruce moves through boutique. The floor is in solid stone. Even so, the brown patches of earth are visible. He moves past the summer smells. Flowers buzz around his head. There are a lot of orchids. The busy or the forgetful person's favourite flower. Pretty, colourful, and you don't have to water them a lot. But it isn't orchids he's here for. He moves into the darker parts, among cactuses and dying plants.  _'Some flowers bloom dead,'_  he thinks, and feels something rustle through him.  _'Why this rotten feeling?'_

Suddenly, he crashes into someone. The person is smaller, and falls on his face, dropping something with a curse. His reflexes kick in and he slams his fist into whatever inanimate object that's being thrown his way.

Only to break a vase and have water splash all over him.

" _Shit_! I mean, I'm real sorry, listen, I got this apartment upstairs..."

Bruce wipes soaked hair away from his eyes. "Don't worry I—"

And then Batman recognizes the voice.


	4. love and a shrink(ing) room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To lessen format confusion, Batman speaking inside Bruce's head is now written in bold. Tried to blend in some dark humour, and a dead body to make up for said humour.

_"Things only feel true_   
_when someone's abusing you_   
_You are sometimes startled you are never surprised_

_There are only two speeds: fast and faster_   
_now you're lashed to mast and lashed to master_   
_Whether you're in bed or in court, everybody gets off_

_So she smokes to keep from eating_   
_and you fuck her to keep from feeling_   
_and this is a taste, and this is a waste_   
_and these are all of your days sacrificed"_

The Golden Palominos — Ride

.

.

(The black beast spreads its mighty wings and  _shrieks_. It claws on the satchel of human skin that contains it, demanding to be let out and to serve a swift and blood speckled justice. It acts like a mad dog, foaming at the mouth, bloated with disease. You know what happens to mad dogs, don't you? They are put—)

Bruce recoils and pushes Batman

(— _down_.)

The echo booms inside him.

"...Hey, you alright? Again, I'm real sorry."

Bruce takes a deep breath, rises to his full height, and turns to whoever's standing in front of him. Batman stirs, but stays quiet. Someone who has experienced firsthand the cruelty the Joker is capable of will not forget. He is the only one who has the slightest understanding of this individual.

Batman knows the Joker like a lover.

The contour of his gaunt, bleak face. The smile, thin lipped and inhumanly wide, frozen, with crinkles at the side. The widow's peak. Pupils small like grains, eyes the colour of spew. Even without a face Batman recognize him, sees the ways he move, recognizes his speaking patterns.

Bruce knows the Joker like a ghost.

His hair is bleached blonde, the grainy after growth barely visible. It hasn't been cut in a while, curling at the tips. He's very gaunt. His complexion is still pale, sickly so, but he seems more like a recluse afraid of sunlight than an unstable psychopath. A pair glasses hang on his shirt pocket. He wears the uniform of the place, complete with a green apron and old jeans. Bruce thinks of a butcher—and if he squinted, those spots of mud could easily be blood.

This analysis of his appearance is done in under 2.5 seconds. He uses another half to plan a strategy.

"You said something about an apartment," Bruce says carefully.

"Yeah. I rent a place upstairs." The man rubs the back of his head. "Uh, let's... I mean, come with me please."

The walls barely allow the broad shouldered Bruce to walk through. He has to walk in sideways to not hit shelves of pots and water jugs. There are scratch marks all over the wallpaper, revealing a pastel, floral one from the fifties. As they walk through the mace of creaking stairs and small halls, the other—as Bruce has oh so creatively called the not-Joker—attempts at conversation.

"It's a two street building. It's like a long, brick rectangle, with Darling Buds at one end and some granny food joint at the other. That's why the place smells like a cocktail of potato skin and meat soup. Her food  _corrodes_  into the house."

"I see," Bruce says, attempting iron out any tension his voice might hold.

"I'm... Jack, by the way. Jack Napier."

"I'm Bruce."

"Hello Bruce," Jack says, and laughs subdued and low, slightly awkward. "Sorry. I talk too much. Anyway, here's the apartment." The number on the door is 32. He fumbles with the key chain, which only contains two others.

The apartment isn't big. He walks right into a combined kitchen and living room, surprisingly sterile in comparison to Jack (who is clean, but still—there is something filthy about him). Baby pink linoleum. Baby blue furniture. No visible television, or computer. A big window, revealing the streets bellow. Hail whips against it. Except the entrance, there are three doors. One has a small figure of a peeing boy on it, marking it as the toilet. The second must lead to the bedroom. What about the third? Unused?

Bruce feels odd, as if he's been let down. As if he'd expected something  _more_.

"Um, I'll just get a tee for you or something. Don't think I have anything else that's your size."

The shirt is in L and it says FREE THE ELEPHANTS on it. Jack explains he got it in the mail together from an animal activist group after he'd donated 120$ to them.

"Why did you do that?"

Jack shrugs. "Felt like it, I guess. I don't have many hobbies. I get books cheap from the second hand shop next door, and I'm allowed to do some minor gardening on my job as well. Rest of the money just sorta heaps up."

Bruce prefers to change in the bathroom, which is just as pink as the rest of the apartment. He contemplates Jack Napier. While Bruce thinks the man is alright—if not a little odd and antisocial—Batman continues to scream in his black hole belly. He will not let it go.

( **It is him,** Batman says,  **I can smell him, feel him, taste him. Hurry hurry!** )

Bruce walks out. "Hey, thanks for the shirt, I guess."

"No problem. You want coffee or something? I don't have guests very often."

"I—" He remembers his date. Although there's four hours until their date, he'll need to make arrangements to please her. And he'll need to research this Jack Napier further. "I'd liked to, really. But I have a date."

"Yeah, well, you're very pretty, so I guess you're popular too." It is a strange choice of words, but there is no malice on Jack's face. "I guess this is goodbye, huh?"

Bruce thinks fast. "I'll need to return the shirt to you. And I think you're better at removing stains than me, so if you wouldn't mind...?"

"'Course not!"

"Great. I'll see you around. Here's my number." Bruce lays his card down at the table. "We could have coffee then, eh?"

Jack nods, almost too enthusiastic. "Sure! I'll just... call you when I've washed it, yeah?"

Bruce gives one last wave. Batman is eerily silent.

.

.

White, round pearls.

The Waynes had died that night, shot by a mugger in a back alley. Little Bruce Wayne had withered, sitting in a pool of rain and blood and pearls. The Bat had been born; an idea that consumed him. This tale is an old one.

"Brucie? Bruce!" Alana—a model, 5'9, blonde—snaps her fingers in front of Bruce's face. They are at a party, sitting near a window. "I asked, what do you think of my necklace?"

"It's gorgeous, Alana." Bruce wears a brittle smile. "Like you."

"Christ. You're not really paying attention to me, are you? What is so interesting that you have to space out?"

"I'm thinking about my parents."

( **That is a lie, Bruce. We both know who you were** _ **really**_ **thinking about, don't we? Beneath it?** )

Hearing her is hard because of the loud music and constant chatting around them, but hearing Batman, oh, that is easy. More personal. Closer.

"Oh... I'm sorry, Bruce. I just feel... unimportant, I guess. Not prioritized. I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude. Just honest." Little pieces of herself slips through the stone façade. Alana runs a hand through her golden locks, then shots another glass of rye whiskey. "I haven't seen you lately. Been weeks. It seems like you're not enjoying yourself when you're with me."

"I've had a lot on my mind." The ox steak is too sinewy and the music too loud for Bruce's liking.

Alana bites her lip. It smears her lipstick. She fishes up a new one from her purse. Booze and sadness makes her hand tremble, making another smear of… blood.

Bruce sharply turns away, "I told you I don't like it when you wear red lipstick."

"You're… you're not listenin' to me. Not looking, not really. Can't reach you! You're some place far away."

"I'm right here," Bruce says quietly.

She shakes her head.

They finish their meals without another word.

She thinks of broken relationships, and he thinks of Jack Napier. She'll dream of a prince in silver armour, and he'll dream of the Joker.

.

.

_It's one of those dreams where you know you're dreaming:_

_The Joker is on the far left, head dangling like a doll's. His lips are ripped off, revealing lots and lots of rotten yellow teeth, so many that he struggles keeping them in. The teeth fall out from a never ending supply. He's laughing hysterically while shoving them back in._

_Batman is on the far right. He's also transformed. Claws have ruptured through his gloves and boots, cape sewn into his arms like wings, armour torn and tattered. He's open mouthed, shrieking, batting his hideous wings._

_Bruce stands a distance from both. He watches the grotesque performance with mild interest, more interested in the storm behind them. Their struggle is something that doesn't concern him. There is mud under his feet, and he's sinking. He doesn't care. He's very lonely._

_Then, out of nowhere, grabs his neck and helps him up. Bruce freezes, not daring to turn his head. When he does, he sees a lanky man, smiling awkwardly at him._

_And Bruce?_

_Bruce feels a cracking kinship._

.

.

This is their last date. Bruce can feel it. It is a new place; fancier, more exclusive. Perfect for a breakup. The tabloids will slurp it up, tonguing the sore for details.

Alana is a smart one. Has to be. Gotham's model industry is corrupted with drugs, prostitution, eating disorders and shady porn agencies. If you work with the wrong guy, you're  _bones_. And only dogs want bones. Still, she is like many women of this city, slim and busy, bearing a slimmer hope that there is place in some man's life for them. Therefore, just like he calculated, she initiates the breakup.

"There's someone else, isn't there?"

Bruce inhales sharply. That was not what he expected. "What?"

"I said, there's someone else, isn't there? In your life. Like, another woman. Don't lie. I've known for a while." Alana tucks a loose hair strand behind her ear. With the other hand, she clasps his. "Hey, it's okay, I didn't think it'd work out anyway. Sorry. Found someone myself." She waits for him to say something; to reject her, stand up, scream obscenities at her. But she knows he won't. In truth, there is no one else. She just needs to know. Hope is a terrible fucking thing.

"…I see. I'm happy for you. I hope he'll treat you better than I did."

If someone asks about Bruce Wayne, she will tell them the relationship was a one night stand that lasted for three months. Bruce will pretend he doesn't remember her, but he does—she is just one of many who have suffered despair because of him, indirectly or directly. Necessary despair.

"I see," she echoes sarcastically. "That's all? You see? I don't think you see, you don't see me, you're busy fucking—" Then realization dawns on her, and she lets out a pathetic little sob, abruptly standing up. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I… I need to go. Bye Bruce. Say hello to your  _friend_  from me." Alana staggers out, leaving him alone in the restaurant. Poor girl. She really did like him. She thinks Bruce is in love.

The food hasn't even come yet, and there are three dishes. Salmon Carpaccio, medium rare steak, and blueberry thinks about the strange dream. He gets his phone. Types a number. The transmission has a duration on three  _brrr_ s before it is answered.  _"H—hello? Bruce?"_  Jack stammers.

"Yeah, it's me. I was wondering about that shirt of mine."

_"I, uh, am sorry. Really. It's finished cleaned. Should've called. 'Fraid you'd forgotten."_

"If you want, you could deliver it tonight."

 _"W—what?"_  Jack sounds horrified.  _"Like, at your place?"_

"No. I'm at a restaurant right now. My date stood me up."

_"Oh. Sorry."_

"Never mind that. Wanted to know if you'd like to come instead."

 _"Me?"_  Jack remains stunned, before exclaiming, " _But I have nothing to wear!"_

"People here are too drunk to notice, even if you come in costume."

( **—dripping makeup clown grin scarred red diseased pastry flesh blood splattered purple suit—** )

" _Won't do that! I have a shirt and a nice pair of pants, I think."_

"I'll call a cab to come get you in twenty minutes. Again, don't worry about appearance."

_"Thanks. Guess I'll see you soon."_

"See you." Bruce hangs up. He does not entirely know what prompted him to call the Joker (no, his name is Jack, Jack Napier), but even Batman doesn't scorn him for that one. He dials the number to a taxi company, ordering and paying on behalf of Jack. Once that is done, he gestures to a waitress and curtly tells them of the change of plan. "…She had a headache or something. I don't know."

"I'm sorry."

They all are, these days.

"It's fine. I got someone else coming over." The mild sympathy she had for him dies. "So I'll postpone the dinner to… half an hour later, okay?"

First at the sight of a 100$ bill—waved impassively between two fingers before snatched up (so fast it's near instinctive)—she becomes agreeable, smile wide and fish lipped. Two greasy worms, curling. "No problem Mr. Wayne! I'll alert the cooks."

Bruce leans back in the shadows, and Batman takes over for a minute. He analyzes the area. Not the best place for an interrogation, but it'll do. Frosted glass. The door less entrance does not dim noise, but music outside might. An interrogation must not be disturbed. Small room, table for two; might increase a feeling of claustrophobia.

( **Let him** _ **squirm**_ **.** )

And Jack does, looking surprisingly human a shirt and pants. The whiteness of his shirt does nothing to lessen his paleness. He nearly trips on a bundle in the red carpet, dropping the plastic bag that contains Bruce's shirt. The driver walks him to the door, professionally nonchalant. After that, the guy is completely lost.

The restaurant isn't big, but it's very crowded, just not only by people. Nature is the latest fad. This results in wooden furniture and plants and actual trees curling in every open space there is. The waiters and waitresses move like they're boneless, avoiding the sticks that protrudes from the oddest of places. They're even dressed in earth colours and a lot of people have glasses (very natural and in some cases very ugly, reminding the customers of their own beauty), reminding Bruce of art teachers. Ironic, because everything that touches Gotham decays. Even the fake plants have ants.

A waiter finally takes it upon himself to help Jack, asking him who's he's meeting and guiding him to Bruce's little palace chamber on the far right. It is deliciously devoid of anything "natural". Simple.

The waiter says, "This man says he knows you." The disbelief is so clear one of Jack's eyes starts twitching. There's sweat under his shirt arms.

"He knows me."

Jack sits down, and awkwardly hands Bruce the plastic bag.

"Uh.  _Hi_."

"Hello, Jack."

"Never been to a place like this before. Thanks for inviting me, I guess."

The first course is served right after that. Those serving have the decency to not stare at Jack like he's a stain under their boot. Bruce will tip them extra for that. They present the dish and accompanying drink; a bunch of fancy names of a big plate with tiny pieces on it and far more drink. Bruce isn't listening.

Jack drowns his glass of beer. "No spots."

"What?"

"Managed to get all the dirt water outa' your shirt. It was a nice shirt. Real expensive." He talks very fast. Not used to alcohol? "Saw your name in a magazine. You're famous! I don't have internet, or television. Or alcohol, for that matter. My," a pause for a hiccup, "doctors say I'm not supposed to."

"...Doctors?" Batman shifts.

Jack blanches. "Shit shit shit. Not supposed to talk about that. Nope, lips are zi—pped."

"Oh. Sorry for intruding."

"No, didn't mean it like that... Just aren't supposed to talk about it." Jack closes his eyes for a moment. "I checked into a mental institution a couple of years ago because of stress related issues which were solved after a brief stay." That sentence is practised. Read out of a book.

The second dish is brought in. One waitress stares at Jack, frowning. It's the first one, the one that gladly accepted the 100$ bill. Wine is set at the table.

"You should try it."

"What?"

"The wine."

Bruce isn't there right now. Batman is leant back and scowling. The shadow from the chandelier forms a mask on his face.

Jack drinks it. His face contorts. The wine is strong, and he coughs a bit, excusing himself. But before he's even sat the glass down, Batman is pouring it while at the same time asking, "More wine?"

"Uh, thanks."

By the time he's finished, Jack is swaying.

"Are you on drugs?" Batman asks.

"'M not 'posed to tell you."

Batman grabs Jack's hand, and Bruce reminds him to be gentle. They never fight as much as when it comes to this person. "It's alright. We're friends. Friends worry about each other."

"Friend?" Jack gapes at him. "Never had that... Doctors said I didn't deserve—"

"I don't care what the doctors said, I care about you." The words come too easy to be lies. When did Batman ever wonder about the good doctors at Arkham? "Do you use drugs?"

"Yeah."

"What kind?"

"I dunno. Meds that keep me calm. Sedated. Pills."

"You should have told me. It's not good to mix medicine with alcohol."

"You're right," Jack says, twirling his thumbs. "Friends trust each other. You're my friend. I should've told you. Sorry. I'm really, really sorry."

"Don't... Don't worry, okay? I shouldn't have forced you."

"No, it's alright. Just... Just bad at this, I guess. This friend thing is new to me."

For the first time, the silence isn't an uncomfortable one.

Bruce lets his gaze drifts. He feels whole, or secure, somehow, like the moments when a supervillain is in the Tumbler and not running berserk on the streets. The Joker is secured, and by Batman alone. He's accustomed to time bombs. He prefers the time when they tick to the aftermath of the explosion or explosion itself. He knows he has a long time to go with Jack Napier, but it is in these moments he exhales.

"Bruce?"

He straightens. "Yeah?"

"...It's nothing."

Bruce is about to inquire further when he sees something over Jack's shoulder. The sourpuss waitress is talking on a phone, smirking right at them. She slams the phone down, triumphant. The restaurant is wired. Bruce's phone beeps a moment later. Alfred listens to every word that escapes the room. A message from him appears instantly.

_Waitress been making phone calls to many popular paparazzi journalists; too many to be paid off. You need to leave. Good luck. You'll need it._

"Thanks, Alfred," he mutters under his breath, standing up. Jack does too, a tremor moving through his thin body. "We need to leave. The paparazzi have found us. They'll make up a story that I cheated on Alana with you, and her fans will tear you to shreds."

"Fuck," Jack says.

"Correct," Bruce replies mildly. "Let's go. And no, don't tip the waitresses. Jack  _no_."

They hurry through the artificial jungle. Bruce's hand is tight on Jack's wrist, managing to acrobatically avoid drunkards and trees. If he's correct, he already hears cars backing up outside the restaurant. He storms into the kitchen, knowing of a secret backdoor. He never chooses restaurants without knowing everything about them.

"Wait! You can't—"

Too late. The door shuts after them.

It's a long, chill hall, functioning as a freezer for two restaurants at once. Most of the workers there just frown at them and go about their business (they're not paid enough to interfere with billionaire playboy business), but a morbidly obese hairy chef blocks their path. "What you kids doin' here?" he gruffly demands, crossing his arms.

"Please," Bruce says, "We don't want any trouble."

"Fuck you."

Behind him, Jack shifts.

Batman and Bruce are not two different people—they're different ideas.

Right now, the idea is to  **get past**.

"Move," he breathes. " _Move_."

The chef has the look of a soldier trying to demonstrate courage while at the same time looking like he's going to piss himself. But then he moves, tail between his leg. Bruce is about to walk past, but Jack stirs against him. He turns. And is face to face with the Joker.

For a brief moment, Jack has a lean and hungry look—the look of a killer. A glimpse of madness, directed at the chef. And then it's gone. Jack promptly pukes on the floor, to the cooks' disgust.

"Let's go," Bruce says, quieter. They walk hand in hand through the freezing hell.

In the backyard, a car on autopilot is waiting on them. 

They get in, and Jack is sweating and coughing in the leather seats, looking ill and miserable. The car is fancier on the inside than outside, meant to be so to avoid paparazzi. "I'll take you home, ok?" Bruce says gently.

Jack doesn't reply.

They swing out to the front road, and take a lesser known road.

"Look Jack, about—"

A corpse halts Bruce's apology.

It lands rather perfectly on the car's roof, making several bulks, before it rolls down the front window. All Bruce sees is a hacked up face before it rolls further, smearing blood all over the glass. Bruce's foot presses at the brake. The car swings from side to side, crashing into other cars. Everything becomes  _wrong_. Bruce isn't quite sure what's happening, because in one moment his face hits the steering wheel and in the next he's ripping open the door and crawling into the streets. There's smoke around him. Broken cars parts. A dead body, too. The world is spinning.

The paparazzi arrive before the police.

And in the next second, he's overwhelmed. Microphones come out of the mists and into his face, a thousand faces screaming at him in curious, malevolent unison. Wanton, wanton, wanton.

"Mr. Wayne do you think this is a message directed at you—"

"Mr. Wayne where is the person you dumped Alana Star for—"

"Mr. Wayne what do you feel right now—"

He wants to say please, and please stop, and he wants to find Jack, but they're pressing him up into a corner and he opens the door to the car again and

Jack is gone.

Bruce passes out, and people are busier taking photos of him than helping him up.


	5. love and confectionary coffins

Bruce awakens in an old hospital room. It reminds him of the projects in Oldtown, bleak and embrowned, where he'd drag his finger along the buildings and it'd be coated with smouldered rock and earth. This looks just as ramshackle. Even in a hospital, someone has graffiti'd a huge vagina on the wall, with text under it. _30 unsuccessful abortions were performed here, can you hear them wailing?_

"I see you're awake." Alfred sits on a plastic chair, perfectly blank. He holds a paper, which he throws over at Bruce. "Eighteen magazines. Three television programs. Countless videos and articles online. Alana Star had an interview in which she speculated about your homosexuality, which sparked controversy. There was no way I could've stopped it, I'm afraid."

Bruce uncurls the paper. His face is plastered over the front page. "Was anyone hurt?"

"There were a few cases of broken ribs and missing teeth, but nothing their insurances wouldn't cover. You did not have any damages either, but we had to move you here because of enthusiastic journalists. Climbed through the windows, some of them did. No one would believe we put billionaire in the cellar right next to the corpses."

"Did they identify the dead body that fell down on the car?"

"I don't know. It's in the room next to this."

Bruce massages his forehead. There's no headache, but a drowsy heaviness, like he's slept too long. "Jack," he mumbles. "Do you know anything of the man who was with me?"

"There was no one who matched the description from the waitress. Rumours say the paparazzi used infrared detectors. Still, nothing. He wasn't in the close area, at least. Our own scanners are working on analyzing the gas from the scene while simultaneously hacking into police data banks." Alfred's eyebrows rise. Barely. "I will not intrude your privacy Mr. Wayne, so I will ask no questions. Although I did check with his apartment to see if he was home, which he wasn't."

The roof lamp swings as someone moves on the floor above them. Loose crust is shaken from the roof.

"You said the body was here?"

"Yes. I pulled a few strings. The police thought—or rather, I made them think it—it'd be good to interrogate you over the _thing_ that caused this, as you are a drowsy, ill and scared billionaire boy."

"Eavesdropping, Alfred?"

"I planted those security cameras with audio recording for your safety."

Bruce gets up. The blue hospital clothes mask the patchwork of scars and bruises underneath. Goes well with his complexion. He'll need to tan soon, to keep up appearances. Waste of time, really. As soon as he's out the door, a policeman summons him to the office down the hall. Alfred was right; by the smug look of the policeman, he thinks Bruce will break. Tough luck.

Bruce enters the autopsy room. It is just like he expected; sterile, grey, full of dead bodies in steel drawers. Yet he takes up a façade of tenseness. Commissioner Gordon and a special agent—C. Phillips, 34, sort of slow, taste for the dramatic—expect him, hands in their pockets. It looks like a scene out of a film noir flick, and Phillips strengthens the connection with his monochrome outfit and dumb fedora.

"Mr. Wayne."

"Gordon, right? And... other guy?" Bruce rubs his face, revealing a sleep deprived and slightly irritated expression. "Could we just get it over with? I have a headache and I wanna go home."

As usual, Gordon lights a cig.

"I don't think you can do that in here, sir," one of the accompanying recruits says.

"What, think the dead will die of cancer, Smith?" Gordon is less dramatic. Smith doubtlessly asked Gordon the bad cop good cop question. Gordon doubtlessly gave him a stupid look.

"Smith, get out of here. Now." Phillips cracks the joints of his fingers, as if starting business. "I think you're disturbing Mr. Wayne's recollection."

Smith begrudgingly goes, sending Bruce a dirty look. Bruce gives him a finger.

Gordon asks, "Want a smoke, Mr. Wayne?"

"Girls don't like nicotine breath."

He shrugs. He doesn't have any contempt for Bruce Wayne. In his eyes, he's still just a lost boy trying to fill the gap in his life with drinking and whoring. Nothing special.

Phillips, however, won't let it go so easily. "Hm. And you do like girls, don't you? Pretty girls, with their pretty perfume and pretty heels. The kind of girls who fuck like they're boneless. Pretty boys, too, from what I've heard. Seen the papers. Well... This guy isn't pretty."

He drags the white cloth away.

Thankfully, Bruce remembers to look shocked. He does a special mental manoeuvre—and promptly pukes into a plastic bag Alfred gave him. (" _They think you're weak, sir. Let them._ ") "Fucking hell."

"As you see the seriousness of this situation, I won't bother with petty questions. Do you know this man?"

Bruce squints, sticking his tongue out in disgust. "All I see is a bunch of teeth where teeth shouldn't be. Jesus. Do you look at this regularly?"

Gordon continues smoking like a chimney.

"Do you have any enemies, Mr. Wayne?" Phillips asks.

"The girls I didn't call back? Plus their boyfriends? Shit, I dunno. Enemies turn into your best friends after a certain amount of money. It's the other way around if you stop paying them."

Phillips snorts. "Try to be helpful, Mr. Wayne."

"I don't know anything, alright?"

"Then thank you for your help," Phillips says between his teeth. "So nice that a prominent media figure like yourself would take the time to help out who this poor fucker is. You're such a good man, Wayne." With that he storms out.

Gordon remains.

Bruce pauses. "Did you bring mother and father to a place like this when they died?"

Gordon's expression turns wry. He lays a hand on Bruce's shoulder, who stiffens, then relaxes. "Something like that. You wouldn't stop clutching their hand. Scared they'd leave. Bit an officer who tried to take you away." 'After that, you turned quiet—wouldn't react to anything. Your butler came and took you away." _'Where's that scared little boy now, I wonder?'_

Bruce chuckles, bitterly. "They did leave though. Why did they do that?"

Gordon has no answer, and so the two men stand there in the autopsy room, silent.

.

.

Crashed cars, parts of them scattered about. Barricade tape, everywhere. Ash. Dried blood. Rain. Bruce breathes in, allowing concrete dust to fill his lungs. His mouth is gritty. Alfred holds an umbrella, but Bruce has declined to share. "Rain sharpens my senses," he explains. They stand a distance from the mess. It is very chaotic, like the last murder. Yet it couldn't have been Jack. Jack sat right beside him when it happened, head smashing against the thankfully functional airbag.

"You were out for nine hours, sir. I believe he can have gotten quite far by now."

"Doesn't matter. Need to check."

Bruce's shoulders are hunched, and he feels naked stalking the streets without costume and in broad daylight. The sunshine itches. Luckily there are no paparazzi left, as the marriage of some pop singer began an hour ago. He scrutinizes the area. "Alfred, begin."

"Very well sir." Alfred collects a notebook from the jacket's inner pocket, turning a few pages. "I caught him on two separate security cameras. One shows him running west, and the other has him heading towards the nearby park. Towards someone."

The hairs on the back of Bruce's neck rise. "Could you identity this person?"

"Hidden by overgrown nature. The park is seldom used after it became a haven for substance abusers."

"See to it that we start funding another recovery house."

"I will, sir." He scribbles it down in his book. When he looks up, Bruce is headed for the park. Having learnt his lesson after years of this treatment, Alfred merely calls after him, "Click the button sewn into your trouser pocket if you want me to pick you up."

Bruce isn't really listening, focus unwavering.

Footprints.

Bloody footprints, nearly washed away by the rain.

They lead to a back alley. It is empty except from a hobo rummaging through a thrash can. Bruce contemplates interrogating the man, but his reputation is already in shreds and it wouldn't look good should the hobo decide to tell an ambitious journalist.

"If you're looking for your boyfriend, he went that way."

Bruce halts.

Gotham is full of people that sometimes seem so small and insignificant when you put them beside each other. But in truth, every single one has a story to tell with details that match no other. Bruce knows better than anyone good a lone man can do. And the bad. He does not know the homeless man's tale, nor will he ever know. But he catches a glimpse of it. "I had a boyfriend, too, once. Wouldn't recommend it. Didn't end well." Far too many children are thrown out by their parents because of their sexuality. The government doesn't pick it up before it's too late.

Bruce gives a tight jawed nod.

It takes a white before he enters the park. The landscape is not green, but yellowed, and he must battle through a jungle of dead grass. Thankfully Jack seems to have made a path.

He finds Jack near a small dirty lake, passed out on the grass beside it.

The relief overwhelms him.

"Jack," he calls softly.

The body stirs, revealing a face contorted with the effects of a hangover. Jack looks like Bruce feels like. "Jesus fucking Christ," he mutters, and it is the first time Bruce has heard him curse. All the frustration and exhaustion Bruce has experienced over the last 24 hours bubbles down to small, tired chuckles. The knot in his belly loosens. Jack kneads his forehead, but wears a small smirk. They don't need to waste words. Bruce hands him an aspirin. "Thanks."

"I was afraid you'd gone," Bruce says.

"Sorry." He sits himself up, joints cracking as he does, rubbing sleep away from under his eyes. "Panicked. There were a lot of people. Cameras. A corpse. Not fun. So I ran."

"I understand." Bruce doesn't need to say anything more. "But why here?"

"...It's green? I like green," Jack says. He brushes leaves off his dirtied outfit, standing up. "What happened to the corpse, by the way? You recognize it?"

"No." Bruce pauses. "You're more talkative than usual."

Jack isn't unlike himself in any other way, except having picked up his street accent again. For the first time, Bruce feels like he doesn't need to walk on eggshells not to startle Jack.

"Thought about a lot of things. It left me with a conclusion."

"What things?"

"We were on a date yesterday, weren't we?"

"Yes," Bruce says, and surprisea himself.

"Then... what happened yesterday wasn't alright."

The sudden, unexpected words have a greater effect on Bruce than what he'd expected. He swallows thickly. For the first time in ages, he feels fresh woe. "I understand if you want to end our relationship," he manages to say.

"No! No, I didn't mean that, I just... We've only been on one date, for Christ sake. But I think I need... info, y'know?" Jack kicks a pebble. It doesn't bulge. "Yesterday, people were chasing us. And that was alright. I can handle that. Why, it was a little fun, holding hands. But the problem is that you left me."

"I'm sorry."

"I realize you panicked and all, no bad feelings, but if this date thing is gonna work then we gotta stick together, y'know?" Muddy and dirty, he stands there in the tall grass, nervous. "I'm used to being alone. But I like you, Bruce."

How does one fall in love with a ghost?

 _'It's not the ghost I like,'_ Bruce thinks, tired and aching. _'It's Jack.'_

"No more dating other people. No more lies, except vital ones. I have my past and you have yours." Their presents, too. "A better understanding."

"I promise."

"Thank you. I won't ask for more. We'll... We'll see how it works out, alright?" Jack awkwardly scratches his head, "Now that we have that out of the way..."

The response isn't really thought through.

"We could go back to your place."

"Oh. ...Oh. Doc says sex is against the rules."

"Fuck your doctor."

Jack smirks, "That'd be against the rules as well."

.

.

The bedroom isn't particularly luxurious, with a brown mattress instead of bed, candles (and city light from outside) instead of electricity, and Jack instead of a hot model. Yet it is the best than Bruce can imagine. It's true that one's surroundings are influenced by emotion, the same way a foreign city turns distant and cold to a sad tourist, while rich and vivid for a happy one. Jack is a little Gotham trapped inside a humanoid appearance, and Bruce loves Gotham, he loves it more than anyone can understand (except maybe... no. Nobody). Jack lies on the bed, cock hot and heavy between his legs. He's grinning, mouth weaponry, armed and ready for war. They always battle, in one way or another.

He is rebellion.

And Bruce will fuck it out of him.

But it's very unlike a real battle. Too much preparation and gentleness. Lubrication isn't forgotten, nor is discomfort ignored. Pace and position are important factors. Jack murmurs that he thinks this is his first time.

Logically, they shouldn't know each other this well. But fuck logic. Fuck it in the ass.

Bruce thrusts into Jack and watches him unfurl. His spine curl, he fists the sheets, and he grinds himself against Bruce. When he reaches out to touch his face, Jack starts nibbling at his fingers. Jerking him off is truly a privilege.

Hellishly, how fast this blossomed, this new attraction and old lust, because yes, the lust that has grown old and dusty returns tenfold in strength.

They settle on missionary; traditional and face to face. Jack's legs are long and brittle, stretching upwards. Bruce plants burning kisses on his shoulders and chest and face. His hair is sweaty. Sticks against his temple. Both of them are exhausted and dirty, but none of them has hygiene on their mind right now. Slow, sleazy sex fits them perfectly. It is very quiet. Instead of gratuitous moaning and slurping, there is heavy breathing and heartbeats. A new doze of lube leaves Jack shuddering with the momentary cold, which makes them chuckle tiredly. "I like this," Jack admits, helping Bruce reposition.

"Me too," Bruce replies, guttural and low.

He maintains a steady pace until heat builds in his gut, and he quickens (after a mouthed agreement from Jack). Jack takes over on finishing his own orgasm. He likes the feel of Bruce holding him , mattress shaking, butt being lifted up so Bruce can fuck into him deeper. Jack spills first, biting his fist bloody not to cry out. Bruce follows, his own orgasm intense but quiet.

They rest in a few minutes, until Jack gets an idea. "I want to blow you," he blurts.

Bruce tries to stop him with a drugged "It's alright" but Jack will have none of it, overwhelmed. He shuts Bruce up with a gasped "I want!" and he echoes himself; want, want, want... It lies thick in the room. Tangible. Bruce feels blood rushing to his dick, letting out a grunt as Jack moves between Bruce's legs. He's like a scientist, tryingly licking the areas around and on, feeling the beat of Bruce's pulse. He tongues and teethes down the trail of hair until the cock is swollen and throbbing. He almost makes Bruce cry out when he takes it in his mouth.

He stretches out, falling hallway onto the floor in the process. One of his hands move to support himself, the other reaching for Jack and capturing his arm, intervening them. A beautiful shape. With his free hand, he guides Jack's arm to him, sucking on the salty fingers in return. He feels fingernails scraping, looking for something to grab onto as pleasure rocks through him. Electrocution. This'd be a good death. He's panting.

Grinding his teeth.

Humming and fizzling with arousal.

For him, time becomes simple actions and thoughts.

A phantasmagoria of roots, or veins, alive, stretching and moving over him. Greenhouse effects and Ouroboros. Completion.

Jack squeezes the base of his arousal and his whole body spasm, hips writhing. Jack sucks hard. His cheeks hollow out by the sheer force. But it is a single touch, a swift stroke of Jack's thumb over Bruce's parted lips that sends him over the edge.

His mind goes blank.

Still.

When he returns to the world of the living, Jack is wiping spilled cum from his chin and oh god, that's really fucking hot. He has this tiny smile, a bit insecure and awkward, but also a bit devilish and fat-satisfied-cat. They both need a shower. But they're exhausted, and go to bed instead.

They fall asleep with Bruce breathing into the nape of Jack's neck and the city outside their window.

(It isn't until they discover the paparazzi outside the next day that Batman awakens.)


	6. love and a blowjob

But it  **is**  important:

Batman and Bruce Wayne are not two separate entities or split personalities. They are two halves of the same coin. It is normal for humans, in our production orientated society, that every member plays a vital role—and in most cases, several. Parent / child / co-worker / friend. Sometimes we mix it up. Sometimes one covers for the other. Sometimes we forget. Batman's role is a protector. He lives in silence, not a contemplative or a pregnant silence, but dead one. Like he'd never existed at all.

Until…

A little later.

The atmosphere in the filthy excuse for a kitchen and living room is positive. It is 07:00, and the first light not blocked by pollution creep lazily into the window. Jack is making eggs. He uses a technique that leaves a thin egg white cover over the yolk, fascinating Bruce. Jack, fresh out of the shower, is wearing an equally fascinating towel bouquet on his head, refusing to say where he'd learnt it. Bruce makes them coffee and complains about Jack's sweet tooth ("But six sugar cubes are my  _thing_! No, it does not ruin the coffee!") and begrudgingly pours himself some without milk  _or_  sugar. They're relaxed, not the least bit awkward, cracking jokes and otherwise enjoying themselves. Old friends. Lovers.

It will not last.

"I'd like to take you somewhere nice," Bruce says, feeling drunk. "Somewhere private. Not like that restaurant we were at. Somewhere more us."

Jack raises an eyebrow. "Is this to make up for fucking me after the first date?"

Bruce looks horrified.

Jack smirks, "Re—laaax, Bruce. I'm kidding. I wouldn't say no to another date. Don't apologize, you made your lil' disappearance up to me last night." Jack winks. He seems to remember something, orbs moving upwards, uneasiness dawning on his face. It's infective, and soon Bruce wears a matching expression. "I need to ask you something," Jack says, finally.

"What is it?"

"It's..." A pause. "It can wait."

Jack eats his toast. Then, changing the subject, he says, "Thinking of dying my hair. Blonde's a bit…" He grimaces. "Gonna change it to brown. Or black. More mature."

"You saying I'm more mature?"

Jack deadpans. They laugh until Bruce gets a message from Alfred alerting him about a business meeting. His Lamborghini has been parked outside. Jack follows him to the door. "I'm… I'm glad you came back for me, y'know," Jack says shyly.

Bruce smiles. He awkwardly leans into Jack and gives him a kiss on the forehead. "Me too."

Halfway down the hall (Jack insisting on following gentleman style), the manager of the flower boutique comes their way. He stops up, regards them, then leers. "Mr. Wayne. How's the girlfriend?"

The urge to tell him to piss off rises, but Bruce only gives a tight smile. Jack looks uncomfortable. Bruce says, "If you'd be so kind, please move. You're blocking the way."

"Oops, my bad. Just go through the boutique. I closed it for, eh, maintenance faults." He goes away cackling.

"Got a bad feeling about this, Bruce. My boss' only source of entertainment is the misery of others."

"Don't worry," Bruce says, and opens the door to reveal a scene that proves Jack's bad feeling correct.

("Mr. Wayne!"  **FLASH**  "Mr. Wayne!"  **FLASH**  "Mr. Wayne!" )

Paparazzi. Someone must've alerted them. Squealing pigs. Howling wolves. Their eyes drink in Jack like they want to strap him to a table and dissect him. DARLING BUDS' door is wide open, and they're streaming in, a mess of writhing bodies and flashing cameras. A bald, wormy looking man even has the balls to  _grab_  after Jack. "You gay?" he yells, putting the question everybody's asking in two simple words.

Bruce describes his situation with one: "Shit."

He grabs Jack's arm. Like hell he's going to leave Jack here with a media circus full of starved animals slash journalists. He's learnt that much. Putting on the pissed playboy act, he shoves his way through the boutique, shattering pots and uprooting plants in the process. He shouts curses, fake and dramatic. Thank god the Lamborghini's parked near the shop. Bruce makes sure Jack is inside first, before jogging to the driver's seat and skidding away from the "peaceful" little street.

Cars continue to follow them, but they're safe now, and Bruce is a good driver. He keeps his eyes on the road. They're both silent. The rain is pelting.

Finally the realization eats its way through his careful defences:

He's slept with the Joker.

Because truly, when they fucked and Jack's head was between his legs, did he not imagine another in the dim bedroom light? Spray paint face and lipstick grin, widening.  **I am guilty** , Batman growls.  _That you are_ , answers Bruce.  _Both of us—the whole of me—is guilty of being enamoured with this man, whoever he is, whoever he was, whoever he will be._

Bruce's hands tighten at the wheel. The car is cold and Bruce is turning up the heating.

"Has this always been your life?" Jack asks, quiet. It takes Bruce a moment to understand that he's not referring to having conversations with yourself, but the paparazzi.

"Yes."

"They like to paint a certain picture of you." Jack is a quiet speaker, but once he gets going he won't stop. "I don't read the magazines, but I've seen the covers. Seen your face, and the headlines about you. But I don't know... I feel like I know you differently... hard to explain, sorry. I feel we have a connection although we haven't known each other for that long. I feel like I've know you all my life, as if you've been there, always, since before the beginning."

"I have to keep up the façade."

"...Do you have any real interest in the life you're living?"

"No."  _'Not in this life, anyway.'_ The girls, the ginger ale, the parties... Bruce gets no enjoyment of it. "It's complicated. But I guess I like spending time with you. I don't do that often. Like spending time with people, I mean." He chews on the inside of his cheek, and admits, "I don't trust people easily."

"I can't explain why, but I trust you," Jack says. "With my life, my soul, with the whole of me. We both have pasts so I'm not gonna dig, don't worry. But... Tolerate my jealousy." He's talking about Alana, probably. "Recognize the need to..." His lips thin, expression closing off. He curls a strand of hair between his fingers.

Bruce's hands are white on the steering wheel. He wants to reach out and touch Jack, kind Jack,  _my Jack_. But he doesn't. "I'm not sure this can continue."

Jack says nothing.

But he falls forward a bit, almost shrugging at the sadness of life. His eyes are tightly shut.

"You saw how they tore at you. I don't want that to happen to anyone I...  _care for_."

Jack looks at him, sharply, but remains silent.

"It's not like I don't trust you to take care of yourself, but please, I don't want—"

"What I want," Jack interrupts, hard as ice, "is to suck your cock again."

"Jack this isn't...  _Jack_!"

"Watch the road, Brucie."

Before he can react, Jack has leant over, working on his zipper. Bruce can see Jack's muscles working through his thin white shirt, but his eyes are forced back to the road, a blur of stone façades and city lights fractured by rivers of water. Batman twists inside him, shrieking,  **J—**

Then Jack takes his cock into his mouth and starts slobbering all over it. It's repulsive and hot. His tongue moves like someone who's done this before yet experiments, riding up different parts, favouring the head and underside. "Mmm," he hums, licking his lips. "Aaah."

First when Bruce's arousal starts reacting, painfully fast, Jack sucks so hard his cheeks hollows. He's still using that tongue of his to all it's worth—and it's worth plenty. "Oh  _fuck_!" Bruce yells, out of breath. This is a sickness, a disease of some sort. With his cock in his mouth, the Joker grins up at him through Jack's eyes.

 _God please don't let him be the Joker. Let the Joker be dead and rotten._ Bruce refuses to acknowledge that Batman disagrees.  **I hope this is Him so I can catch him again and again and again and again**

He comes, biting his lip till it bleeds. White. Death, for a moment. His mind becomes empty.

Jack swallows, but wipes the discarded remains on his shirt sleeve. He licks his lips. Holy hell, he probably likes the taste. "You don't  _want_  to leave me," he says, hard. "You  _like_  me too much."

"I like you," Bruce says, dazed, trying to keep his eyes on the road. Jack's right. Isn't he allowed a little happiness? A little order? A little Jack?

"Slow down," Jack says, nudging his head towards the road. "Lemme kiss you."

He does, hot and sloppy. Bruce tastes his own cum and grimaces. Jack laughs, breathless. They part and the spit stretches out in a little line before it breaks at the middle with a small pop.

.

.

The body must be in balance.

This is particularly important when it comes to hormones. You get too little dopamine, you get Parkinson's, and too much, schizophrenia. Too little serotonin and you get depressive symptoms. The point here is this: Bruce wonders what the fuck they pumped Jack full off to make him so irresistible. It's cliché. Dumb. Like an idiot in love, but Bruce can't help it, because Jack insists on walking close when they walk up to the Wayne mansion and Bruce feels intense warmth inside his chest.

Alfred is not as warm.

"Master Wayne," he greets, ever so blasé. "You missed your meeting."

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize to me," Alfred says. "Apologize to Lucius." He's suspicious—but Jack wouldn't know.

He just feels like a bum boyfriend disapproved by strict, rich parents. A failed courtship to add to the list of his failures. Jack's pride isn't swelling, exactly, Bruce knows. "This is Jack," Bruce says firmly. "I'm dating him, currently."

Alfred's expression betrays nothing to Jack, but his eyes tell Bruce everything.

_If this is part of some plan of yours I do not think it will succeed._

_I do not approve of this._

And lastly:  _I still hope you know that you're doing (and that this will not break you further)._

.

.

The media gobbled up his little boutique act. It plays 24/7 most channels—although they've just recovered three dead bodies in an abandoned house in Gotham with no clues—and the scene in which Bruce turns towards the camera shouting "Fuck you!" is the most popular. More articles appear online. Debates arise. LGBT and pious people are dragged in.

Jack sleeps in Bruce's bed.

 **Need to hunt crime** , Batman demands.  _Soon_ , Bruce promises.  _I am hunting it as we speak._

He hunts information out of Jack, but most times, finds himself ignoring opportunities with excuses like "Jack told me not to dig". They build upon attraction that was already there. Sex hasn't changed anything, but it has sped things up—and they do have a lot of sex.

.

.

They've hung out for about 15 hours, midnight nearing, when Jack drops an atom bomb.

"You know," Jack says, "I'm glad I listened to that man."

"What man?"

"The one in the park. Wait..." The atom bomb detonates, countdown going 10, 9, 8... "Shit shit shit shit I wasn't supposed to tell you, it was so strange and he said you'd be upset—"

"What. Man."

Jack gulps. "He was wearing a strange clown costume," he says finally, and Bruce's world tears in half.


	7. love and two dead bodies having a laugh

—his world tears.

In half.

Two theories. Countless outcomes. Summarized (and Bruce needs logos to guide him on this one, not the other one):

1\. Jack is the Joker.

2\. Jack is just a random citizen in a set up.

Both of them are mixed in or manipulated by remaining henchclowns, and the two theories say nothing about whether Jack is aware of this or not. That scares Bruce more than anything. No matter, it always ends in what he tells Jack: "I want to trust you but I  _can't_." The situation would've been funny hadn't it been so serious, because he's still fucking what might be his nemesis. That alone shows insanity.

"I understand," Jack says, but he doesn't. Bruce lets him off at his little apartment. Jack gives him a tired smile. 24 hours together, lots of sex and joking around and no conclusion except more uncertainty because of trust issues. Jack won't give more info on the man he met because he doesn't trust Bruce not to freak out and Bruce can't promise to not freak out because he doesn't trust Jack to tell the truth. Fucking uroboros. No end.

It's the beginning of an end.

He becomes Batman that night. There have been more murders in the style of the first, hinting at a new serial killer. Or just an old one.  _The_  old one. Commissioner Gordon asks about the Joker issue, and Batman says the investigation is ongoing.

He calls Jack and says he can't come tomorrow because it's too much right now. Jack doesn't answer for a little while but says it's okay, but that little silence says Bruce everything he needs to know.

Breaks your heart, doesn't it?

.

.

"Batman," Gordon says.

"Batman," Gordon yells.

"Batman!" Gordon screams.

Batman snaps up and twists around, cape fluttering around him like a great darkness. It's a stormy night, dark like motor oil and mercilessly cold. He's been standing on the rooftop for a long time. The bat signal was on, but there were no policemen there. No Gordon. So he waited, and in the dreadful silence came the thoughts like  _order_  and  _Jack_  and  _love_. The memories streamed through holes in his cape and sewed themselves on his spine, reminding him of

Jack—smirking up at him from underneath him, licking a drop of cum from his lips, pushing his ass up into  _oh_

JackJo—taking control for once, riding him, insisting on being fucked bareback, wild and hot and rough

JjjacJokJacJoker—laughing hysterically, apologizing for his ugly laugh, then laughs again, and Bruce can't help but join him

Batman shakes his head blinks, hard. He must become concrete again, inhaling, letting Gotham's dust fill his lungs. He hoarsely rasps (" _do you have a cold, Brucie?_ " Jack had asked, winking. _"Want me to take your mind off your sore throat, heheh?"_ )—"What is it, Commissioner? Do you have a breakthrough on the case?"  _The_  case. The one with the  _bodies_. The one that  _matters_.

"Yes."

Gordon is looking at him again with that concerned, sad frown. Batman is reminded of the autopsy room with him, all those days ago. Batman wasn't there, not quite, not wholly. Fragmented. Dark. Bruce must stop leaving Batman in the dark!

(" _Don't leave me! Pl—please, d—don't leave me! Mommy! Daddy! J—_ ")

What is it with these memories that keep resurfacing? He's not even supposed to have strong memories outside of Batman. Bruce is supposed to be a shell. Broken and hollow, not like a maniac in love, mixing in Jack with all his important memories like he can't remember a time before him. There  **was**  a time before Jack. There even was a time before the Joker.  **You need to remember that, Bruce.**

"We found out what the victims had in common, except being bulky and cheating on their girlfriends," Gordon says. He lights a cigarette. Like always, the light won't catch and he fumbles with his lighter. His hands do not shake. Thank god for Gordon. "They'd all been henchmen for the Joker on one point or another. Some of them were small fry, skittish, used for small infiltration jobs. Makeup store robberies rather than kidnappings. Others had survived long in the business, known for keeping their mouth shut and mind clear. No one was spared. Whoever it is who's killing them is continuing."

Batman closes his eyes, hard. Bruce shifts and swallows thickly, but Batman does not.

"I know what you're thinking," Batman says. "He's doing it behind a new face."

"Yep."

"You think if we find him anew, we can put an end to this."

"Mm—hmm."

"You want me to find him."

Gordon shrugs. Batman doesn't like seeing him so helpless or sighing so deep that his rib cage rattles with the effort. "You know," he says, swelling with the humanity that Gotham will never break or she'll break the only commissioner good enough for her, "I actually really like the goddamn idea. The idea of a new start, I mean. Even for someone like him. But it ain't realistic."

"Gotham is not realistic." A hotspot for horror. Arkham, in a bigger dose. Batman continues, hushed, more to himself, "I am..."  **not**.

"Hm. Still. I'd like it to be true."

They stand in silence for a little while. Batman gets ready to go. "Goodbye, Gordon."

Gordon jumps, staring after him, eyes like dinner plates. Batman never says goodbye.

"What the hell are you up to now, son?" Gordon asks. The wind answers him simply by howling.

.

.

The call comes at midnight.

Batman doesn't register it at first, just thinks the buzzing is an extension of the black drone of wind. He continues through the abandoned warehouse where the corpses were found, hoping to find clues, yet he's very... aimless. After 3.5 seconds Batman's fine hearing takes the buzzing apart though, and clarifies it as something else than white noise. Batman finds the phone irritating and dumb, holding it in his glove, growling at it like an inhuman beast who doesn't understand technology, wondering why did he bring him with him, why is someone ringing him now, why does it spell Jack—?

Bruce  _shoves_  Batman off. He has to breathe a bit before he answers the phone.

"Jack?" he asks, trying to be blasé but ending up tentative.

Sobbing, at the other end.

"J?" Bruce tries again, using the nickname only when he's agitated. Jack said it was a cute habit. There's nothing cute about this situation. The sobbing worsens, mending in with static and weather noises.

Batman growls:  **There's wind. He's outside. Not too loud, so he's standing next to something covering him. An alley?**  So many allies in Gotham.  **Find location. Ask for it. Force it out.**

_"B—Bruce..."_

Jack only uses Bruce's full name when  _he_  is agitated.

"What? What is it, Jack?" Bruce tries to be hard and logical—tries to be Batman—but ends up sounding like a little boy again, lost with his loved ones suffering beside him, unable to help.

_"Killed someone..."_

Bruce's world freezes.  _No. No no no nononono—_

Batman growls:  **Told you so.**  "Describe your location," Batman demands, never questions, into the phone. "If you have a newer phone then use it to send me your location. I need to find you as soon as possible."  **You and your victim both, murderer.**  Inside, Bruce starts to sob. Coward. Weakling. Child. "Jack. Answer me. Now."

"Sorry! Sorry... Um, uh, it's a... a space between two buildings, y'know..." God, he's forgotten the word alley. It's so  _Jack_  that Bruce wants to laugh but it gets stuck in his throat and comes a gulp. Batman is silent. "It's near Darling Buds, I think... Walked for a long while, tried to clear my head... Didn't see the car following me until it was too late, or I might've seen it but I didn't care, I was so sad..." More snivelling. "I—I can send you the location. Message you, I mean. It's here, the little arrow, yeah? The little arrow... Oh fuck, fuck, shit... He was telling me these things... horrible things... I'm so  _sorry_ , Bruise, so fucking sorry..."

Street accent is back, too.

Bruce almost starts to cry again. What can you do when your loved one is in so much trouble and pain, while at the same time you're fighting a battle with yourself?  **Shush** , Batman commands.  **Save it for later. Focus on order. On containing chaos. I am order.**

 _No you're not_ , Bruce thinks.  _No... we're... not_.

He has never moved so fast in his life.

His life moves in a bunch of blinks. Street lamp. Wet pavement. Flashes of passing cars. Light reflected in windows. The motor cycle. Speeding up. Avoiding light, any light—avoiding drunkards in the middle of the road. Almost running over a hobo, ripping up his little box home in the process. Forgetting to mentally write up to fund another homeless shelter. Darling Buds. Left? Right? He checks his phone, curses himself for not doing it earlier, and finds the location. Tries not to tremble when he puts it into the cycle. Off again. Scaring old ladies in windows, wrinkled faces stretching in horror.  _Fuck them_ , Bruce thinks, and Batman shushes him again. Stripping off his armour in some alley. Sprinting.

Find Jack.

Find Jack.

Find Jack.

Find

a paste white figure, standing over a body beaten to death with a metal pipe, still fresh with blood. The alley is dark. Abandoned. Windows nailed shut with planks. Almost suspicious. The standing figure is leaning down, hands on his belly, and judging by the stink there's a pool of vomit nearby. The figure's hair is greenish in the dark—ha, what a time to discover Jack's coloured it. Black, though. It's black.

 **Murder scene mapped,**  Batman growls.  **Murderer, found. Take him out.**

"B—Bru—Brucie."

It ends on a shrill note.

Batman walks towards him in confident steps, only faltering when he comes close enough to smell Jack's familiar smell. The smell of dirt, and flowers, and that expensive perfume he accidentally shattered with a wild leg during sex after Bruce discovered he was ticklish. "J," Bruce says, despairing, and runs over to—

**Take him out!**

—embrace him, tightly, as if the world was falling apart and he didn't care because Jack was here in his arms and  _you're safe now._  The hug is returned, immediately. Clutching Bruce, hard. Clawing into him. Wanting to enter him, almost, not in a sexual way, but as if he could thread his spine onto Bruce so that they'd never leave each other. The reverie is quickly destroyed, because the pretence of dead is too near, and Jack's eyes glide over to the body wide wide wide so endlessly wide the eyeballs might burst

"Don't look, Jack," he says quietly.

Jack doesn't, shoulder slumped, head hanging down. But he lets go off Bruce, taking a step back. The body is wearing a clown mask, of course. Skull crushed to pieces. Jack looks like he's going to laugh, part his thin lips so widely that the sides of his mouth will rip, but he doesn't. "How can people do something like this?" he asks, and although his words wobble there is still raw terror there.

"I don't know," Bruce lies. He's experienced the darkness firsthand, seen it coil underneath his fingertips, trying to escape like a thousand spiders. There are spiders in his own heart, too. He twitches in their wake. Jack contains eggs. Little black babies roam in there, needle legs tapping at the shell. Madness, knocking, begging to be let out.  **We need to get away from the crime scene,**  Batman growls.

"What did he say, Jack?"

"He spoke about you."

Bruce stills. Even his Bat side is stunned. "What?!"

"He didn't get to me at first, talking about me and my life. Tried to get under my skin by saying I was miserable. Failed. I didn't think I was. Not all the time, anyway." Another sob. "Then he spoke about how you were gonna die soon. How this was part of some great scheme, me and you, all planned out. Gave me the location and everything. Some amusement park or something. He said you were gonna die I killed him. For you. It was so easy. He didn't fight it. Hit him with the pipe even after he was dead." Jack sounds broken.

The man has killed.

For Bruce.

Batman twists.

"It's alright," Bruce forgives—and it is the closets he ever was to murder.

Jack is back in his arms in a second, hugging him, exhausted. "I wanna go home," he says.

"Let's," Bruce agrees.

.

.

They go straight to bedroom. It's dusty. The sheets, the floor, Jack's eyelashes—everything seems to be covered in it. It dances in the thin light provided by the street lamp outside the bedroom window. Bruce finds some candles to make it more homely, while Jack just sits there on the bed, vacant eyed.

Bruce starts removing Jack's clothes, stained by another person's blood. His own, too, and they sit there side by side in a room lighted up by hundreds of candles.

"Jack, please, say something."

"What is there to say?" Jack speaks like he's already dead inside. "I killed someone, Bruce. Slaughtered them in plain sight just 'cos they pissed me off. I'm not  _better_. I'm  _sick."_  Bruce reaches for him and his hand is swatted away. "Should've known. Should've known when you said you didn't trust me. You knew, didn't ya? That I wouldn't be able to handle life outside the boutique, staying in my own controlled little world, shoving my fingers in earth, living among plants which couldn't fucking hurt me—?" His voice breaks. "Why do you do this to me? Why do you...?" Jack's tearing up, but he's cried for so long (probably before the murder, too, hiding under the covers swelling with sadness and whys) that no tears come. Pain, so much pain. He's numb with it. "Why do I love you so fucking much?"

And it is a confession, although a tragic one.

Like the ones muttered in moments before death.

Bruce shakily exhales. "Jack. Jack, I lo—"

"No you don't. You don't  _trust_  me, and you don't  _understand_. I'm mentally ill, Bruce! I'm fucked in the head. I love you so much I want to kill somebody, I want to rip them open, and I don't like to think about it but I  _do_! Okay? I'm not... I'm not..."

Worthy?

"Damn it, J," Bruce curses, "I'm not perfect either. Trust issues and PTSD; the shrinks would probably love to get their greasy fingers in my brain. Sometimes life gives you lemons. Sometimes, mental illness. Sometimes life shoots both your parents in a dirty alley when you're eight and you spend time somewhere far inside yourself to avoid your problems. It doesn't matter and it doesn't dictate your worth. I trust you.  _You_ , Jack. No one else. I don't care what you were before or what you are now, because you're all I got."

Jack's eyes are dark. "I was someone bad, before, Bruce. Someone real bad. I think I know who, too, although the doctors never said it out loud."

**It is true. End this.**

"Jack."

Batman makes one last, dying twist,  **No no no don't even think about it—**

"I'm Batman."

Jack blinks at him. "Oh god."

"...You don't have to call me god."

A moment passes.

Then they both break into wheezing laughter, all the tension in the room bubbling down to this. Jack throws his head back. Bruce watches him the entire time, engrossed in the love of his life, willing to drink in every single detail and find it perfect. Bruce loves this broken little man, even if he can't say it. Jack dries a tear, "Jesus, Brucie. This is... this is a lot to take in." He turns more serious, but the smile remains, sad happy and tired all at once. He seeks a connection—not in the form of sex though—and creeps closer to Bruce, who helps them undress properly and slide under the covers. "We sure are a fucked up couple."

Couple.

It makes Bruce smile. But Bruce is a coward, he knows, and won't say "I love you" until Jack is sleeping tightly on the pillow beside him. He soon falls into sleep himself.

.

.

When he wakes the next morning, Jack is gone.


	8. love and you

_"'Cause when love is gone, there's always justice._   
_And when justice is gone, there's always force._   
_And when force is gone, there's always Mom. Hi Mom!_

_So hold me, Mom, in your long arms. So hold me,_   
_Mom, in your long arms._   
_In your automatic arms. Your electronic arms._   
_In your arms._   
_So hold me, Mom, in your long arms._   
_Your petrochemical arms. Your military arms._   
_In your electronic arms."_

Laurie Anderson — O Superman

.

.

Bruce sits up on the bed, and regards his surroundings. In a way, it's his version of a goodbye.

He walks into each room and looks and looks and looks. The bedroom. The kitchen. The bathroom, still smelling faintly of chemicals like hair dye and detergent oils. Memories creep back with the old smells, and create imaginative settings in which Bruce comes regularly to the lean, nervous man above the flower boutique; a black hole away from the world and its problems. Jack greeting him, smiling, drinking that sugary sludge coffee. But it's fantasy—because Jack is gone.

_Goodbye, Paradise._

_You would not take someone like me. Not when Gotham lingers._

He walks as though in a haze. Out from the apartment, out from the building, out from the dream. Out.

.

.

Bruce stands in the amusement park. It is too early for it to take guests, 05:00, dark and ominous.

Jack did not specify where the dead henchclown had said he'd go, but he'd mentioned an amusement park as an end. The end of them. Maybe Jack had gone here to end it himself. Bruce feels naked and cold, now that his identity had leaked out. He looks around at the scaffoldings of the amusement park, picturing it various angles and aspects, imagines children screaming and laughing. Popcorn machines. Cotton candy stores. Roundabouts. A Paris wheel.

...The tunnel of love.

For fuck's sake.

**It is a trap.**

_Of course it is._

**I am not going with you.**

Bruce heads there anyway, although his steps are a slowed, dreading the end. The tunnel is still pink and dotted with hearts, and there is a small path on each side of the water slide. Inside, the cold worsens, threatening to freeze him solid. Why is it always so cold? He misses Jack, and suddenly understands why Jack said he'd kill people just to be with him. More idly, he wonders who is at the end of the tunnel. An old acquaintance? A new one? Or the Joker himself?

"Jack!" he calls.

A trail of lights is lit up.

Leading to a hole in the tunnel, blown apart. Inside is only darkness.

This has been planned.

He enters the void, trapped by endless darkness. He tries to walk in one direction, and can't find any walls or obstacles to lean on.  _Fucking metaphorical place_ , Bruce thinks. He surprises himself by cursing. Has the playboy act infected him? Isn't he supposed to be whole and good?  _Oh no. That's Batman, not me. And he isn't here. This is something I have to do as Bruce Wayne_.

There! A light! Several, actually. Stabled on top of each other.

TVs.

Dozens of them, small and old fashioned, all showing different things. Bruce comes to a halt, stomach tightening. He lets his eyes slide from screen to screen. Documentaries. Reality shows. An old black and white Dracula movie. Torture porn flicks, or just snuffs. Weird, undistinguishable things—ah, no, one of them is actually a woman on a bed getting mauled by a chimpanzee. Bruce's gonna puke. Most of them show things like that, gritty and disturbing, and it takes Bruce a moment to see that there's also footage from the henchclown murders. People torn open, intestines drooling out, missing limbs. No system or order. If he squints, he can see less grotesque but just as chilling scenarios, like a gun pointed at a child's head while a man saws his own foot off. Threats. Bribery.

There is a sofa chair in front of them, so small in front of the towering half moon, all surrounding it. The sofa chair is cushioned and blanketed, but the arms and neck is chained, forcing the observer to be still and watch.

"Jack? Is that you?"

The body moves, a bit stiffly. Joints, cracking. Head turns  _just_  a fraction.

Is that rustling, Bruce hears?

"J—Jack?" Careful, like a child of an unstable parent, Bruce walks over to the body—and starts to walk around it. Seeing. Really, really seeing.

Rifts.

Rifts, and what looks like barbeque gristle, at both ends of Jack's mouth. And it's Jack alright. Same hair, same face, same clothes. Thank god he isn't wearing that god awful clown grin (even if he might have, at some point, because of the rifts), but the eyes are unfocused and expression hollow. Bruce leans closer and sniffs in the scent of chemicals so strong they prickle and sting in his nose. "Jack? Can you hear me?"

"Is it time, boss?"

Bruce is so engulfed in Jack that it takes several seconds for him to understand that there is someone else in there with them. Why didn't his well trained senses alert him? Somewhat panicked and freezing cold, Bruce looks over to the owner of the voice, and sees a figure standing wearing a clown mask with a sad expression. His head tilts, but other than that, he stands perfectly motionless.

When Bruce looks back to Jack's face, all colour drains from his face.

The eyes, lazy as ever, have slid over to Bruce.

The mouth starts to move.

Bruce can't discern words at first, mind swelling like a bruise.

"Mmmammat _Matthew_. Mattie. Mama's boy." The slight perk of Jack's mouth. "Your  _mama_ , rightie?"

"Yeah," the henchclown replies with an edge of exhaustion and helplessness. "My mom. You said you let her go if I do this."

Out of a sudden a long thin white arm bolts out from under the blankets and hooks around Bruce's neck, pulling down with immeasurable strength so that Bruce's head ends in the crook of Jack's neck. Like a lover. The thing who can't—can't,  _can't,_ _ **can't**_ —be Jack continues speaking with Jack's voice. "Hey, Mattie, remember that chicken you ate two weeks ago? The one you thought was  _sinewy_ , but didn't say 'cos it was your girlie's first try at cooking? Truth to be told, she got the chicken already prepared from a butcher 'cos she was afraid to disappoint ya. Aaaand it wasn't chicken. Tell me, did it taste like home?"

The silencer makes a whisper of the gunshot.

There is a gun in Jack's hand, handle pressed against Bruce's back. He feels it.

He tries to move, slow at first, then quicker, but the hand around his neck is steel.

"Mm _no_. No _p_ e. You're not going anywhere. Look at me, you creep. Straight in the eyes." Bruce does, slowly, dread and the smell of chemicals making it hard to breathe. "That's right. Can see it, can't ya? That I won't let you leave? Stand  **up**."

Bruce gets off as quickly as he can, backing away.

The bluish light from the TV screens gives the thing stalking towards him pasty looking skin.

"Jack—!"

The metal pipe hits the centre of his chest before he can register it. The air is knocked out of him, and he falls backwards into the screens, shattering and breaking some of them. Glass fall down on him. Snow. On some of the TVs, too. He's going to die.

"I'm not Jack. And you're not Batsy. You're an  _imitation_. A  _creep_. You're not supposed to exist!"

Bruce knows at once who this is.

The Joker, wearing Jack's skin like a nicely tailored suit. Livid.

"Where's Jack?!"

"Shut up! I try, and I try, and I try, but you just throw this... this  _thing_  at me!" he gestures to Bruce. "This itty bitty shit shell. You think this, this is your core? Your  _heart_?" The Joker walks like a badly designed doll, twitching. "I know better, Batman... wherever you are in there. So I decided to strip you off it and shatter this hollow heart. Didn't take long. That's how I knew that this wasn't you. Look, look Batsy!" he screams, eyes darting around the room as if someone is watching—and then his expression abruptly changes.

Becomes tentative. Trusting.

"God, Brucie. I'm so sorry. Here, let me help you..."

Bruce, scared shitless but delirious, lets the person reach for him. "Jack," he croaks, and it wounds up becoming a lot more broken than he'd thought it'd sound. The hands that reach for him wrap around his throat, almost lovingly. And  _squeezes_.

"Want to kill you so bad," the Joker mumbles, aroused. Then he quickly stands up and lets go, hand under his chin in a contemplative fashion, while Bruce coughs so hard his lungs might shatter. "This isn't right. You're supposed to be here, B-man! Don't you wanna see me? Don't you wanna see what I did? Naughty naughty naughty, standing our date up like this. Maybe I gotta convince you I'm serious? How much I love you?" Bruce is trying to stand up, but the metal pipe comes down a second time and this time, breaking his jaw. A spray of red in his peripheral vision. The man in front of him is looking at Bruce like he hates him.

And then Bruce knows that Jack can't be saved.

But hope... Hope, oh, the hope. It's what fuels both Bat and Bruce.

"Jack," Bruce repeats.

"Nope," the Joker says. "No Jack. No love. Just me, and you, and this lil' black hole room."

Some of the TVs are still going, spewing angst and violence. The noise is almost muted, but now that he's close, Bruce can hear it like a horrifying orchestra of the absurd and grotesque. Dissociative, Bruce wonders if this is what the Joker always hears—and if sometimes, at the back of his head, Jack did too.

The Joker stops his reverie by kissing him. It's invasive. In terms of pain, his (broken or fractured?) jaw nearly matches the heartbreak.

He was true when he said there was no love here, because the way he kisses is also contemplative, and what the Joker is contemplating is obvious: how to hurt Bruce as much as possible without killing him. Or does he view them as separate entities, the heart and the shell?

The kisses start gentle, then he uses teeth, puncturing Bruce's bottom lip. It bursts like rotten fruit, spilling. Bruce whimpers, and the Joker pulls away to smear the blood all over his face, inhaling it. "Like lipstick," he explains in a drugged moan, then goes back to kissing Bruce, more repulsive and sloppier than before, tongue and all. Salvia mixes in with the blood, creating light brown spit threads and bubbles. "Technically not cheating," the Joker says. "Just—attention whoring, I guess? Ha!" He moves to the neck, finding the fingerprint shaped bruises, and starts tonguing, biting and sucking on them.

"Why... are you... doing this?"

The Joker halts the relentless use of his mouth, to chuckle darkly and hotly into Bruce's skin. "Baby boy Bruce," he says patronizingly, "don't ya get it? I gotta finish off the story! Grand finale! And after the clean up comes the party, yeah? It all adds up, y'see. Rebirth! Genesis! I have a new face now, and I'm a new person, cleansed from old bitter Mr. J and that nervous wreck Jack guy you rave on about. No longer rotten and ill. No longer unloved." Cleansed? So there was a Jack? Just like there was an old Joker, once, there was a Jack who loved him? Bruce breaks. "And there'll always be more henchmen, but not ones like those prehistoric idiots."

"You want to rewrite your history," Bruce breathes.

The Joker brightens up. He pats Bruce's head. "Good boy! Now hold still while I  **fuck**  you out of him."

Bruce panics. Yelling in desperation, he starts hitting wildly around him, wanting to kill the Joker for just suggesting doing that to him—

and stops, because it's Jack, he can't hurt Jack.

The Joker punches Bruce in the face and breaks his nose. One more punch follows, hitting his eye, which will soon swell and blacken. Bruce growls in pain, and the Joker withers, turned on. While Bruce recovers, the Joker starts working on Bruce's jeans and underwear, ripping it off. His own, he leaves relatively untouched, only zipping it open and taking his cock out, already hard. "We fucked, didn't we? Back when I wasn't me. Bet it was very vanilla. Not like me and Batman would do it, oh no."

Bruce immediately becomes defensive. "Fuck you. He was better than you'll ever be."

"Oooh, Brucie—are you really defending a  _ghost_?"

Jack, killed.

Killed with chemicals and grotesque videos that broke him and brought the Joker back.

Or is he still in there?

Suddenly Bruce is very aware of the hard member pressing against his ass, the Joker already pulling and pushing to position him correctly. Bruce's disoriented mind starts to shut down. There's not enough lube, and there's no condom, and nothing that'll lessen the dryness. The Joker's having trouble getting in. But he finds it funny.  _Laughs_ , just like Jack did, sans the cruelty. He laughs all the way when he starts worming himself into Bruce, tongue lolling out.

Rape. Rape!

"No!" he shouts, and the Joker looks at him, allowing him to speak. "Please, Jack, if you're in there."

The Joker stills. His eyes change, if not only a little.

"J—Jack?"

"Bruce?" Is it the truth this time, or just another act? "What the hell... What is happening to me?" Tears well up in his eyes. "Aargh, my mind, shit... It hurts..." he grabs his head, fingers tightening in his hair. Bruce doesn't dare move, nor speak. Doesn't trust himself to do it. "Bruce? What just happened?" His eyes go wide, staring. "And what happened to your face?! ...Did I do that? Oh no oh no oh no... I'll fix this, I promise," Jack says, abruptly hugging him. "I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," Bruce whispers. Bruce, slowly, starts to hug back, trembling and biting his tongue. Everything hurts and swells and contorts. They stay like that for a little while. Suddenly though, Jack starts to move. Bruce whispers, hoarse, "What are you doing?"

"Surprise!" the Joker screams, and slams himself in so deep his testicles  _slap_  against Bruce's ass.

Bruce's eyes go white. The Joker's, too, but only for a moment, and then he's drinking in every detail on Bruce's shattered face, and doesn't give Bruce time to adjust, just moves. And moves.

And moves.

...At the sixth thrust, Bruce can't grit his teeth anymore, and he screams while blood streams down his thighs.

The Joker doesn't mind. "Just scream it out, Bats—scream  _him_  out. Bribed the workers to keep out of here. Planned this from the start. The perfect date, huh?" He gives a particular rough shove, pressing Bruce further into the ruined TVs. They're full of missing parts and cut into his back. Bruce claws at the Joker's back to get him to stop. "Tch. Bad move." And then Bruce's hands are held by the Joker, shoved roughly down in heaps of broken glass. Bruce makes an incoherent scream, 50% human language and 50% animalistic noises.

Bruce is crying out Jack's name in time with the thrusts, repeating it like a selfish prayer. He wants his own personal god back. Wants Jack. Or perhaps it's more like those horror games teens play in front of mirrors at midnight, saying a name three times and then the ghost will appear.

Jack doesn't appear.

The Joker was speaking the truth—it's just him, and Bruce, and a void.

A memory chooses to reveal itself.

 _"He creates himself each day,"_  Dr. Adams, the Joker's long surviving psychiatrist, had claimed once, when she wasn't going on about Aspersers and super sanity.  _"One day a mischievous clown, the next a homicidal maniac."_

Yesterday he was Jack.

Today...

"Out! Get out!" the Joker pants, trying to hurt Bruce as much as possible, cock a knife to be injected into Bruce until he bursts, spills and flies away. Calming down a bit, fucking him slower, the Joker asks in a sugary sweet tone, "Did Jack cry for you? He did, didn't he! Such a fucking baby... Did you ever cry for him? No? Gonna cry for me instead, Brucie?"

The TVs are still screaming and laughing and crying all around him.

In particular, a little child.

A defenceless little baby.

Crying.

...Somebody really ought to help that baby.

"That's it. Good boy."

Bruce's cheeks are wet. He can't understand why, too numb from all the pain. In a last pathetic try to find Jack, Bruce reaches out and touches the Joker's cheek. That's what Bruce is reduced to, now.

The Joker takes one of Bruce's fingers in his mouth. Sucks on it, a little bit.

Then he  **bites** , and does not let go until he hears the crunch of bone.

Bruce's utter look of anguish, agony and betrayal sends him over the edge and he empties himself inside Bruce, giggling as he comes, thrusting a few more times for maximum pleasure before he pulls out.

He fixes his pants, and sits down beside Bruce. "...Bye bye, Brucie. Nice knowing and all, but you're simply in the way. Don't take it personal." As a last insult, he bends down and kisses Bruce's forehead with a sloppy noise. Not quite satisfied, he laps up some of the tears, and some blood. Bruce doesn't react, and it makes him smirk. "And when my darling wakes up in a lil' bit and takes your place—well, tell him I said hi. And that I'm  _waiting_."

.

.

He doesn't know how long he just sits there.

It's going to be light soon. He'll need to move. There's a dead body about two meters to his right and the place reeks of violence and sex, and he'll need to move.

He does, ignoring the feeling of cum and blood running out of his ass. It'll go away. It can be washed away. So can the shattered finger, the black eye, and the broken nose—with proper care and attention. Attention he'll give it, as it is daylight, a time for rest and healing. So that he can go out again in the night and be Batman.

Mommy's dead. Daddy's dead. Brucie's dead.

Jack's dead.

The two doomed lovers stand on a hill, somewhere in far away in his—Bruce's—ruined mind. The background is beautiful and looks like a watercolour painting of a dream. Looking at each other, holding each other. Fading to dust, too lost in each other to notice. Smiling, sadly. A little more innocence shattering. A little more Bruce, gone.

Till there's nothing left.

Nothing.

.

.

They're at a rooftop again.

Like always.

Batman glares up through Bruce's dead eyes and sneers, lips curling above his teeth. He is all of Bruce's negative feelings personified.

"I will catch you," Batman promises, sneering, drooling, grinning—always so inhuman and in total control.

"Again and again, always," the Joker answers, and laughs

and laughs

and laughs

and—

.

.

Somewhere, a child is crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, the noncon scene was scrapped, but I wanted the Joker to illustrate his "heart rape" literally. I hope it helps build the feeling I was going for in the end: hollowness. I'd love for you to tell me if it succeeded or not.
> 
> Thanks for reading The Heart. Glad I managed to finish it before 2015.


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